It's Not Supposed to be This Hard
by Semebay
Summary: There are heroes, and there are villains. One man finds himself in the middle, harassed by a self-proclaimed hero, but trying his hardest to stay with the faeries that want nothing more than to see his life crumble around him. AU, Dark, evilfaeries
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** It's Not Supposed to be This Hard  
**Genre**: Angst  
**Rating/Warnings:** **PG-13.** Language and violence  
**Summary:** They say opposites attract. Unluckily for an American hero, his opposite turned out to be an introverted Brit with a cursed life.

This fic was written for Valentine's Week, '10. As you can see... It's not very "Valentine-y."

* * *

Arthur Kirkland wasn't one to bend to the will of another. He was rather proud of the fact that people had deemed him "emotionally detached," "untrustworthy" and "suspicious." It simply meant that people avoided him at all costs.

His fascination with all-things-occult also helped.

Maybe that had something to do with the house he had chosen after moving from England. The wallpaper was dark, the furniture was a dark wood, and the light bulbs seemed to absorb the life of the atmosphere instead of making things bright. There was an aura of grief and lingering hostility in the old house, and it seemed to permeate the air and walls so that even door-to-door salesmen and neighbors found the place intimidating, and avoided it like the bubonic plague.

His house suited him perfectly.

"Please don't stress the issue," the owner of the house said lightly when he opened the front door. He slipped his shoes off and slid them into the closet by the door, shaking the water from his hair and removing his water-laden coat. "I know the wallpaper is old, but it's fine as it is. There's no need to throw it out! It adds some charm to the place."

To a normal person, the sight would be rather frightful.

For the wallpaper was actually rather dreary and cold, summoning thoughts of vampires and other nocturnal demons.

And, well... Arthur Kirkland was talking to himself.

His extravagant eyebrows lowered over his emerald eyes as he scowled, looking at a spot of the counter. His coat had somehow found its way across the room and onto a hook by a heater, as though it had flown there by magic.

And maybe it had. After all, there were many rumors that he was cursed, a messenger of the devil (_"Rubbish!"_ he would say), or that he was a wizard, a _warlock_ cast away from his home castle (_"Not everyone in Great Britain lives in a bloody castle!"_). One thing that was known, was that he had a very bad relationship with his family. And those that had bothered to look into the stranger's history had found stories of pain, suffering, and misfortune. And they had found rumors of _magick._

"And stop bickering, ladies! If you need to fight, then take it outside!" He shut the door behind him and grabbed the remote from a coffee table, settling down in his old chair. He clicked on the television and sat back, letting himself sink into the oversized cushion. He watched the station it turned onto for a few minutes, then clicked a button on his remote.

"Never anything on the news," he mused as he flipped through the channel. The only thing that seemed noteworthy was the mention of a local _hero_, a man that had saved a child from being hit by a car.

He remembered the man. Bloody suspicious, he was. The week before, that hero had saved another child from a car, pulled a pet cat out of a tree, and somehow single-handedly stopped an armed robbery in a local back.

And that was _all in one week_. It didn't include the months before, the rescues, the good samaritan work, _every bloody thing _the man seemed to be involved in.

How was it that no one noticed it was the same man, performing similar stunts week after week after week? Someone that acted so flamboyant couldn't _possibly_ be ignored or missed for that long. Had no one watched the videos, compared faces?

Not that Arthur cared. He changed the channel, deciding to kill time watching Jeopardy, or some other American rubbish that passed for entertainment. He sank deeper into the chair, letting it engulf him, and he suddenly wished he had a blanket. The rain had chilled him, for sure, and he was feeling a bit under the weather (no pun intended, of course).

And as soon as he wished for a blanket, it was there. He grimaced as he pulled the thick fabric over him, pulling his legs up into the chair and curling up to conserve warmth.

He should do things for himself. He should've have gotten up and retrieved the blanket, instead of blindly wishing for things like that.

And as he took a sip from the tea cup that was suddenly on the coffee table, he dwelled upon how he should have made it himself instead of waiting for it to appear for him.

And the tv turning off should have been by his hand, not the fae's.

He should have done it himself.  
_  
"Is he sick? Oh, dear! What shall we do if he dies?"_  
_  
"We shan't even entertain the idea!"_ another faerie chirped, and Arthur cast a glare in its direction. It looked much like a cat that had just eaten the family bird; pleased, arrogant and amused.

"Why don't you shut your traps for a bit and let me sleep?" he suggested.  
_  
"But we're watching over you!"_ And then the faerie was laughing, her tiny voice like a mix of bells and clashing swords._ "We love you, Arthur. We love you so very much!"_

"I'm sure you do," Arthur grumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "You _always_ have, after all."  
_  
"You see!"_ the fae all replied, converging on his coffee table. _"You see that we love you! We've always been there for you, when no one else cared!_" The fae were becoming excited, darting around in the air above the coffee table as Arthur watched them.

They really _were _pretty creatures. Their wings were like ribbons of gold, their skin as pale as snow. And even if their eyes did have a tendency to turn from the pale blue to a vivid red, they always returned to normal, showing their sweet smiles and soft features. He had never dared to touch them before, always fearful of their delicate wings being crushed by a wayward hand.

But they had always been far more adventurous, flying to him and landing on his fingers, playing with his ears and cheeks when he froze in place and refused to move in case he hurt one of them.  
_  
"And you love us, too, Arthur!"_ the fae chanted, pleading with their red-tinged eyes.

Arthur let his own eyes fall shut. "Of course."

The fae were a curse, Arthur decided the fifth time he tried to light his cigarette, using his hand to shield the tip from the rain and wind.

And he was their victim.

The fae weren't like the fairies of American children's books. They were far more conniving, malicious, _evil._

He had thought them pretty as a child, amazed by the trails of dust and light they left behind as they drifted through the halls of his home outside of London. It had been obvious that no one else could see them; after all, his mother had always said there was something wrong with him, that he was far too entranced with his imaginary friends.

He had never tried to tell her otherwise, to tell her that his "imaginary friends" were real.

He had simply thought that he was special; he was a child that could see what others could not, a child that could see the _miracles_ of the fae.

And the fae had seemed to love him, treating him with respect and honor.

But before he knew what was going on, the fae had become more sinister.

The neighbor's dog was the first to pass. He had said one word about it, a simple observation about the frequency and volume of the barks.

The next day, the dog had been missing.

And so had his neighbor's cat.

He had been an innocent child. He had assumed nothing, let it pass. Until the fae had begun their song.

The lovely singing that he had listened to for hours as a child became a death hymn. He was swept along, a child unable to voice his thoughts and refuse the promises and lies of others. His parents had noticed, tried to help him, but they lost interest soon enough (or they were afraid for their safety, for their _lives_).

He was introverted. He was hated by his peers. And in nine years, he finally controlled them.

He controlled the ones he hated.

And he took advantage of that.

The fae liked him. At times, it was suffocating. However, when he could use them to terrorize his tormentors, then they became his life. _They_ were his friends. _They_ taught him magick, and spell work, and curses.  
_  
They were there for him._

Through his rebellion and rage as a teen, through his fights as a young adult. He had been unbeatable, someone that others looked up to and feared. They admired his abilities but resented his condescending coldness, the distance from others that he always enforced and boasted. They were afraid of the fists, that could shatter bone and destroy lives.

He had been a punk, a rebel, a _demon._

And he had fled England. Had found the first plane that would spirit him away from the relatives that feared him, _loathed_ him.

He couldn't be happier. He was finally at peace. He had his true friends, the fae that had been with him through childhood. He had his books. He had his money (for even though they hated him, they gave him money, afraid that giving him nothing would be a grave mistake). Hell, he had a house. He would never have to work again in his lifetime! He could sit back and knit, or sew, _embroider_, play guitar, _anything_ he desired.

And he could do it without being judged by outside bastards that thought they knew what was best for him. He was alone. Alone and at peace.

His cigarette finally lit, and he placed it between his lips, taking a deep breath and blowing out through his nose. He took a step to the side, stepping under the awning and out of the drizzling rain.

He was cold, leaning against the brick wall of the cafe he frequented. The coarse brick scratched at his long jacket, and he watched the fae from the corner of his eyes, watched them flit about and sing.

The cafe would burn within the week._ That's_ why the fae were so bloody excited. Someone was going to suffer from this, a life would be destroyed by the loss of a family business, and the bloody little faeries were going to dance until it happened.

Well, he wasn't causing it. It was doomed to happen, and the fae were just there to watch the show. It wasn't his fault the wiring was faulty, the stove was in a stupid location, or whatever the hell was wrong with the establishment. He had no part in it. Fate was the one working behind the scenes, bringing destruction and peace, misery and love. It was present in all things. That much was obvious from his own life. Fate was a force that was not to be pushed aside and ignored. It always got its way.

As he thought, the singing became louder and louder, more boisterous and giddy.

And then suddenly, it stopped.

The fae had stopped moving, frozen in place, eyes wide with confusion. They looked around, and after a moment, Arthur's eyes widened a fraction of an inch.

The aura of destruction was gone. In the last few moments, something had changed, the imminent future of the tiny cafe changed and saved. There was no longer a threat of fire, of death.

Arthur could not think of a time when something like this had happened.

For the aura to dissipate completely without threat of return, to change into something pure and inviting. He had always thought it impossible without some sort of divine intervention (an intervention that no one was willing to give).

Someone, _something_ had intervened, and had changed the flow of chaos and fate.

And he had an idea that that _someone_ was the man coming out of the cafe door.

Someone with bright blue eyes and glasses.

Someone that was looking straight at him.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur recognized him immediately. The man had been on all of the local news networks over the past few months, so how could he not?

The _unnamed hero_ was staring at him, and Arthur narrowed his eyes. There was no reason to be surprised. He had wondered when he would run into the man, knowing that he had a knack for being everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But now that he had seen the man, he found that he was really rather boring (even if there was this _feeling_ around him that was making the fae really uncomfortable).

Arthur blew out a cloud of smoke, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and the man spoke.

"That'll kill ya." The man nodded to his cigarette, and Arthur stared.

He was obviously mistaken. The _feeling_ had to be nothing more than the feeling of his intelligence slowly being sucked away in the presence of the man. "_That'll kill ya_"? "Ya" wasn't even a bleeding word!

"Really?" Arthur sucked on the end of the cigarette, this time blowing the smoke in the other's direction. "That's too bad then."

The stranger frowned and waved a hand to clear the air. The fae had begun their singing again, though this time it was more a melody of confusion. They left him, flitting into the cafe to observe what had happened.

"That's rude, y'know?"

"You shouldn't stick your nose where it's not wanted," Arthur said coolly. "Why don't you turn around and go wherever you're supposed to be."

"I'm just sayin'," the man pressed, taking a step closer. Arthur blew yet another cloud of smoke in his direction, and he grimaced. "They're unhealthy. People get cancer from them. Hell, second-hand smoke gives people cancer!"

"Don't preach to me, I don't care," Arthur said, discretely looking towards the door of the cafe in search of his companions. "Your vulgar way of speaking is far more likely to lead to my death."

When it looked like the man was going to continue, Arthur turned away and started walking.

Sadly, the stranger (now dubbed "git") followed.

"I was talking to you," the git said.

"And I'm walking away," Arthur snapped. He narrowed his eyes against the drizzle. "I obviously have no need of your pathetic attempts at a conversation, and I would rather you _bugger the hell off_ before I become any angrier than I already am." He kept walking, and then the fae were there.

The git had disappeared.

"_What was he?_" the fae asked as one, revolving around him like planets caught in orbit.

"He was a bleeding git, that's what he was," Arthur growled.

Arthur continued on in silence, dodging cracks and potholes in the sidewalk as he pulled his jacket tighter around him. He would never have chosen it himself. If he had chosen, he would have picked a beige, or a tan. But the fae had insisted on a dark green, like his eyes without the light reflected in them.

The way his eyes would look when he was dead.

He wondered if they laughed at him when he wore it, delighting in how he wore the color of his death. If they contemplated how they would end his life, after they grew bored of him.

He wasn't stupid enough to think otherwise. Fae were cruel creatures. He had seen them end lives, latch onto whatever they pleased and suck away the vigor and youth until they left only an empty corpse.

Arthur grit his teeth and flicked the ash from his cigarette, letting it fall to the ground. But one fae, the little ring-leader, grabbed it and played with it, flipping it through the air and making shapes and lines.

"Might as well just let it go," Arthur grumbled when they passed a woman and her child. He didn't look at them, but the mother did a double-take when she saw the odd happenings in the air behind him. "It'll be wet before long."

The journey to his house was a long one. It usually took him thirty minutes to walk from the edge of the city, down the long forested path that marked the beginning of his property. The fae left him there, to enter the dense wood that shielded the ground from light.

One thing he enjoyed about the property was the size. A large house, hidden in the forest just outside a sizable city. No one knew it was there, and while some teenagers and enthusiastic preteens from the city occasionally found the path and traveled down it, they never stayed long.

The fae made sure of it.

With howls and shrieks, they brought to life the banshee, and her screams warned the world of death and destruction. Anyone who neared the woods were turned away, and those that were actually within when the ruckus started were scared and sent away.

There were whispers in the city that the woods were cursed by a demon. And the more that Arthur traveled in and out, the more people were certain that he _was_ that demon.

Which was just as well.

Arthur reached a hand out as he walked, touching the hanging branches and watching the leaves he touched as they turned from green to a deep red, then fell from their branch to the ground. The path twisted through the woods, branching off and leading to numerous dead ends. He rarely took the other paths, but he knew that the fae had been hard at work where he didn't tread. He knew that at every dead end, was a dead animal, mutilated beyond recognition, the sightless eyes remaining fixated on a single spot, all facing south.

The fae were territorial. They did _not_ want outsiders to intrude upon their domain, and Arthur was wise enough not to request they stop. They may let him control them, but they did _not_ let him change their sinister ways.

Arthur paused at the end of the path, looking over his house from afar. The dark black shingles, the deep brown paneling, the porch on the front. It was a sight to see compared to the quaint houses and apartments in the city. No one would see the beauty of it past the darkness, no one would see the finely tooled Celtic knots that skilled hands had carved around the doors and windows a century before. They would instead be drawn to a broken window, one he never bothered to patch up. Every time it was fixed, it was promptly broken again. It was a waste of his money.

Arthur finally shook himself from his stupor and approached the house, pushing open the unlocked door and letting himself inside. This time he let his jacket fall to the floor, unconcerned by the water that formed a puddle. He pulled a pitcher of water from the counter by the sink, slipping out of his shoes as he walked, and finally moving into another room, a library.

The books were ancient. He had tried to read one when he had first moved in, but it had crumbled at his touch. And so had the following five. He had decided that he would work harder at his craft, then he would make them friendly to his hands, so that he could take them and read them without fearing their demise.

And he had also decided that he would someday make use of the pristine grand piano that filled the center of the room, and that someday he would use it for something more than a table on which he set his plants.

He slowly poured the water from the pitcher into one of the pots, a vine that was threatening to creep outwards and begin to crawl up the walls. It was new to his collection, and its growth was surprisingly fast (he was sure the fae had something to do with it; while they had their moments, they had a great respect for all things nature).

He watered the herbs, the roses (black, another trick he attributed to the fae), and the carnations. Then he set the empty pitcher down on the piano bench, let his fingers glide along the uneven keys, listening to the jarring notes as they rudely broke the tense silence that filled the house.

His eyes darted around the room, looking at the spines of the books, the titles he had memorized long ago.

And then resting on an old guitar, black, beaten. The blood on the body, from someone he had had a disagreement with. He always told himself that someday he would pick it back up and play it again, to reminisce about old times.

Times he wanted to both forget and remember.

"The reapers were here," he said softly.

The air trembled behind him. Fury or alarm, he couldn't distinguish which.

"You were set on killing that man earlier." Impassive. Calm. Uncaring. "I'd rather you not resort to petty violence."

_"He was a danger,"_ the faerie in the air behind him hissed. _"He was a bad man!"_

"He's an idiot," Arthur said. He touched the strings on his guitar, listening to the sound that rang out. "Not worth your time." He finally looked back at the faerie. "If anything, I'm the bad person here. If he wants to help people, let him. There needs to be some sort of balance with me in this city."

Arthur pulled his hand away from the guitar and turned, walking away from the bookshelves and the instruments. "I'd rather not have a reaper frequenting the house, so please try to tone it down."

The faerie snorted but made no other sound, no other indication that it was there. It might have disappeared, for all that Arthur knew.

Not that he cared. They all came back to him eventually. He climbed the old staircase to the upper level slowly, listening to every familiar creak and moan. He turned right, opened the oak door of his room and stepped inside.

His room was the least decorated room in the house. It had a four post bed, pushed up against the wall and centered between two windows, and a closet for his clothes. An end table was pushed beside his bed to complete the room, and he decided that it was probably time to put _something_ in the room, _anything_.

But what could possibly finish his room? What would be the point of filling a place used only for sleep and to hide from the outside and dwell on his misery?

Arthur let himself fall face first on the mattress, and he stared at the wall. A grandfather clock in the hall outside ticked loudly, and with a sigh he let himself sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The days in the city passed in relative peace. There was the occasional car accident, assault, domestic abuse, but apparently in America, those incidents were common.

Even in the streets, people were brutal to one another. Arthur could still remember his first week there, how he had stayed in New York City for the better part of a month before deciding on where to settle down. Someone had tried to mug him in broad daylight, dragging him into some back alley.

Then that someone had found himself hanging from the fire escape of an apartment complex, choking, gagging.

Arthur had watched him with morbid fascination, ignoring the fae that had laughed and sang above the criminal. Then he had left. He never knew if the man had survived (he highly doubted it), and he found that he didn't care.

He wasn't the one that hung him up. The fae had reacted and saved him. And the criminal, well.

He had probably killed someone before anyway.

Arthur forced himself to stop thinking about the past. There was nothing truly interesting about it, and it was more likely to make him depressed or angry. He didn't need to think about his parents or his siblings.

He pulled a book from the shelf before him, ignoring the people that milled around him.

The bookstore was smaller than most. It wasn't one of those stores that had chains nationwide, but it had its own flair. A cafe in the back, a steady flow of customers.

In a world dominated by big business, the family shop came out on top.

Arthur muttered something under his breath, scowling as he read the back of the book.

""With a newly written introduction by Janice Caplin"," Arthur read. "Who the hell decided it was a good idea to give that bitch a pen? She doesn't know her arse from her head."

"I take it you don't like her?"

Arthur ignored the voice. He shoved the book back onto the shelf and searched for another edition, wondering if he should simply order one online. "Eric Sawyer is no better," he grumbled when he checked the next edition.

"I bet you read a lot!"

Arthur finally found another edition with no introduction in it. And with an afterword by Bruce James, it looked to be tainted in no way. He shoved the book between his arm and side, then walked to another aisle, glancing quickly up and down the rows. He finally settled on a used hardcover, reading the name _Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_ with a somber expression but a relieved heart. They had one that _wasn't_ in paperback, and it was in very good condition. He flipped through it quickly to ensure that there were no missing pages, then placed it under his arm with the other book. He had always appreciated Holmes. The man was intelligent, logical, _sane in an insane world_.

"Is that any good?"

Arthur grit his teeth and turned back to the git that had followed him through the store. The git grinned, his blue eyes shining behind the glasses perched on his nose. He looked excited.

The excitement only served to aggravate the Briton before him.

"I could never hope to understand your need for attention, and you should know, I have no intention of giving you any. It is very unfortunate that we have had the... _ill luck_ of meeting again, but I suppose we can make the most of it, and you can _bugger the hell off_."

And Arthur turned away, leaving the git to figure out what he had just said.

"I'm paying with check," Arthur told the elderly woman behind the register, not bothering to look back. He was already writing it out, the fae laughing behind him at something they deemed hilarious. He imagined that somewhere, someone was beating a puppy. That would just tickle them to death.

Arthur pocketed his receipt and grabbed his bag of books, walking from the store and heading down the street. He had nothing to do that day. Well, he had nothing to do _any_ day, really. His eyes fell on the brick cafe and he turned into the doorway, pushing it open and listening to the bells as they announced his arrival.

"Welcome back, Mr. Kirkland," the woman behind the counter chirped. "The usual?"

"Earl Grey and a scone," Arthur confirmed, and the woman disappeared into the back of the shop.

Yet another family-run business that had survived the fast food era. One so family-oriented that the owners and hired help knew him by name (though they knew no more than that).

Arthur took a seat in a booth in the back corner, picking up a newspaper and opening it before him. He shook it, sticking the creases so that he could hold it with one hand and use his free hand to handle his tea and scone.

It wasn't long before the waitress appeared with a tray and a tea pot. She placed a ceramic cup on the table before him and then placed the tray of food by his left (his free) hand. She then placed the pot down on a knit pot holder and gave him a wide smile before leaving him.

Arthur said nothing. She came and went in silence, and he poured himself a cup of tea, placing the pot down and then raising the cup to his lips.

His time in the cafe was always the same. He entered, found a booth and a paper, and his food and drink were served to him. He would finish the paper and the food at the same time, then he would place a tip on the table (twenty-five percent, he was more than generous to people that could make good tea), and he would leave.

Every day was the same in that aspect. His tea time was not to be trifled with.

"I'm giving you the benefit of doubt by refraining from calling you a stalker," Arthur said coldly, and there was a laugh on the other side of his paper.

"I'm not a stalker."

"I haven't called you one," Arthur turned the page, "yet."

"Alfred Jones."

Arthur ignored the hand that was thrust out to him. He simply turned another page in his newspaper, concentrating on the stocks. He made no move to further engage the American in conversation, hoping that the git would understand that he wanted to be left alone.

"You're supposed to shake my hand and tell me your name!" The git frowned at him, and began to poke at his newspaper. Arthur was finding it harder and harder to keep up his front of impassiveness, and then the git's finger poked through the paper.

"Oops!" the other man laughed. _Laughed._

"Why don't you take the bleeding hint and bugger the hell off!" Arthur suddenly shouted, and the coffee mug before the American shattered. Hot coffee suddenly covered the table, and the git was up and cursing, dancing in place and trying to get away from the scalding hot liquid as it soaked his shirt and pants. Arthur grabbed his books, his expression dark as he made his way to the counter.

"Excellent tea," he said briskly to the panicked waitress, and he placed a crisp hundred dollar bill before her.

Then he left.

_"See?"_ The fae were quick to converge on him, snickering and humming. _"You can do it! Just destroy those before you! You don't have to hold back! And look how much happier you feel!"_

One flew before his face, floating on the gentle winds as he walked. _"You need to let out your anger!"_ Her eyes were a vivid red, _blood red,_ and she laughed. Her pointed teeth shone in the light of the sun. _"You can control them as you control us, Arthur. You can _rule _them."_

"Get out of my face," Arthur snapped, and the fae smirked before flitting behind him to join the others once more.

Arthur found himself speeding up, his anger getting the best of him. He marched through the pathway of the woods, strode into his front door, and slammed the door shut so hard that it cracked.

The fae had disappeared in the forest, presumably to go change guards at the numerous dead ends of the paths. Arthur sat down at his kitchen counter and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands, taking a deep breath.

And then another.

And another.

No one had ever dared to speak so casually with him. The git's egotistical actions (for he _was_ egotistical, there was no doubt about that) infuriated him. He didn't deserve the attention of the other. He had never done anything to anybody. He had never wronged anybody. Yes, he told them to get the hell away and find something useful to do in life, but honestly? That wasn't bad.

The things in his life that were bad were the fae, and there was nothing he could do about them.

He wasn't at fault for any of those incidents (though he would admit that the coffee _was_ his fault; he took full responsibility for that, and he was rather proud of it).

"God damn it, shut up will you?" Arthur suddenly shouted. The creaking that had started directly overhead ceased, and he took yet another deep breath.

He had to calm down.

No, he hadn't had to deal with people in a long time. He had never been so insulted.

But there was no need to ruin his entire day because of one stupid git.

Arthur looked over the tops of his hands, glaring at the wall. In the cafe, he had been trying to remember somethi- Of course. The stocks. The bleeding stocks.

Arthur stood slowly and pressed his shirt, getting the wrinkles out of it. He didn't imagine he would be leaving the house again that day, but it still wouldn't do to have untidy clothes.

Arthur straightened his spine and walked pointedly towards the archway that was just past the television, where his mahogany desk and chair set were situated, surrounded by plants and flowers off all kinds. He turned on the computer and sat down, turning on the monitor and grabbing the phone from the tray beside the keyboard.

"Kelling," Arthur said as soon as there was an answer. "Sell Drillen, buy Harney. What?" He paused. "No you git, all of it! And get on it." He hung up without waiting for another word, turning back to his computer and opening his inbox.

Spam, requests for donations, business news, world news.

Local news.

He passed over the local news, not caring about the git's latest escapades or the weather for the week.

"I told you to shut up!" Arthur shouted, and the noises that had restarted upstairs ended immediately.

The house was suddenly cold, and Arthur groaned as he waited for the computer to load his webpages. The house was silent once more, and this time the tense aura of the place insured that the silence was there to stay.

It was still light out, the hour hand on the grandfather clock not even touching on the eleven. He relaxed in the chair, staring at the computer numbly.

When had he last had such an outburst of anger?

Surely it must have been when he had still been in England. He could remember that, while he had been quiet as a child (almost silent), there had been times that he had been so irrationally angry that he had struck out at anyone and everything. He had destroyed things, hurt people, and his mother...

He didn't know about his mother, he realized with a little bit of confusion. In his memory, in those places where she should have been, he had only a dark spot, a censor on his memories.

Was she so terrible to him as a child that he had repressed the memories of her? Had he hated her too much to want to think of her?

Arthur sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

He shouldn't think about such depressing things.


	4. Chapter 4

Almost a week had passed before Arthur trusted himself to leave his home. He didn't want another occurrence like the one with the git. It would just be unnecessary trouble, something he certainly didn't need on his plate.

So with his head held high and his cold exterior restored, he returned to the city.

However, his luck obviously hadn't gotten better.

He had just received his tea and scones when it became apparent that he was never going to have any peace in the town. For, once again, the voice spoke to him from the other side of the newspaper.

"Well, that was a shitty conversation we had last time," the git laughed, and Arthur clenched his teeth. "Can't control my own strength, can I? That coffee thing sucked."

"I believe I told you last time that I find your constant intrusions into my life to be a pain in the arse, and now I will add that I also find them infuriating, rude and insulting." Arthur shook his paper pointedly and took a sip of his tea. Then he broke off a piece of his scone and placed it into his mouth.

The git seemed to ignore him (yet again), and launched into a tirade about something or other that he really didn't care about.

"So, y'know that first time we met? I just saved this place, y'know?"

The git was far too excitable considering his age.

"Cause, I came in an' I saw the stove. And I've never seen a stove set like that, and turns out there was something wrong with it! Like, it was heating up faster an' faster each time, and there was some gas by it, so sooner or later, BOOM!" he threw his hands up, "no more cafe."

"Marie," Arthur called suddenly, lowering his paper. "Another pot of tea, if you will."

The waitress nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Arthur turned back and raised his paper once more, but not before he saw the expression in the other's eyes.

For a moment, he was almost afraid.

The git (_Jones_, he suddenly found himself correcting himself) was watching him much like a predator. Much like a dog sizing up his opponent. Arthur did not like that expression at all, and, hidden behind his paper, he narrowed his eyes.

He had never killed anyone before.

He didn't want to be forced into a situation where Jones would be his first.

Arthur thanked Marie when she returned with the tea, then he returned to his paper. Something inside him was warning him, some primitive instinct telling him that Jones was not someone to be trifled with.

But Arthur was proud, if nothing else. If Jones wanted some sort of fight with him (likely over the coffee ordeal), then Arthur would give it to him.

And if Jones died, then he simply wasn't worthy of life.

Content with his conclusion, Arthur hurriedly finished up the tea and closed the paper. He left the bills on the counter (a quick glance told him that Jones had resumed his naive expression), and then he walked out.

"So, someone told me your name was Arthur," Jones said as he followed Arthur to the door. They each pulled on their jacket on watching the rain before plunging into it. "You come from England? Or Australia?"

"Because England and Australia are so bleeding close," Arthur grumbled under his breath. "Bloody stupid country. Ignorant. Effing Americans."

Jones must have heard him and decided not to bite. It was a shame; Arthur was rather excited, now that there was a chance for a fight.

As Jones continued on, Arthur ducked under an awning and pulled out his pack of cigarettes and a match. It took Jones a moment to realize that he was alone, then he looked back and frowned.

"Oh, c'mon!" Jones moaned. "I told you befo-"

"Unless you're offering a lighter or some matches, belt up," Arthur snapped. He lit the cigarette and tossed the match, earning a scowl from the American.

He considered it a small victory. Anything that obviously irritated and bothered Jones was worth celebrating.

"So where're you going?" Jones demanded.

"Somewhere you obviously aren't," Arthur grumbled under his breath as he walked away from the man. He ducked his head in the rain as he moved, but Jones obviously wasn't taking no for an answer.

"C'mon!" Jones complained, but Arthur simply smiled to himself. "It's not like you can go anywhere with that death stick!"

"And how old are you?" Arthur wondered aloud. "Eighteen?"

"Twenty," Jones said proudly, then seemed to stiffen. "Why?" His voice was laced with suspicion, and Arthur suddenly turned to smile at him. A cold, calculating smile that left no guestions as to how the man felt about the younger one's presence.

"There's one place I can still smoke, _and _get away from you."

Jones stopped moving and stared as Arthur pushed open the door to a dingy old bar.

"Cheer up, Jones," Arthur said with a smirk. "You may grow up to be something someday. Maybe." And he shut the door in the American's face.

Never before had Arthur been so enthusiastic about the legal drinking age. Hell, they should change it to twenty-three! That would make the bar a safe place to get the brat out of his hair for another three years!

"What'll you have?" the tender asked as soon as Arthur sat.

"You have real alcohol, or American piss?"

To Arthur's great surprise, the bartender (after a chuckle and a shake of his head), shoved a drink across the table.

"And what is it?" Arthur tested him.

"The Irish fellers like it, so I think it'll be good fer someone like you."

"Fair enough," Arthur decided, and he raised the glass to his lips.

Arthur could remember his time as a teenager in England. He had been a terrible drunk, clingy and angry all at the same time. It was inexperience, he told himself, brought on by his father's intolerance and his own rebellion. He had his stomach pumped twice before he had learned to control himself, and had vowed to never return to that time again.

There were plenty more reasons why his time as a teen was so depressing and disgusting. His rebellion had always put him in precarious situations, and more often than not he was cursing people and crippling them.

Or his fae were killing them.

He could still remember the face of the first human his fae had killed. He had been a portly boy, barely in his teens. He was violent though. He had had a knife that he would wave around, and would act like a damn street thug seen on the American movies.

And he had believed himself to be something special, too.

Such a foolish boy.

He had gone after Arthur once. Had tried to jam his knife into the back of the older teen's neck, to cripple him, _kill_ him.

But he hadn't expected the strength of the reject from the upper class family. He had expected an easy take-down.

Instead, one swing of Arthur's guitar had split his skull.

And the next had broken his teeth.

Arthur took a deep breath of his cigarette as he reminisced. He still had the boy's blood on his guitar (caked and dried, flaking, but still). He had remembered the people that had been with him, cheering him on as he kicked the boy to the ground, stomping on him, trying to break ribs.

And the round of celebration drinks that they had bought, just for his victory.

And when he had returned to his beaten down hotel room to find the fae, singing their death hymns outside, leading him into the forest.

Of course he had followed; the fae were _his_, his only _friends,_ his only _family._

They had hung him from a tree and forced his own knife through his chest.

And Arthur had watched. With cold eyes, he had watched them kill that boy. He had done nothing. He had stood there, and with every final breath the teen had taken, Arthur had felt his own life leave him.

He was left empty. Emotionally-detached. Cold.

And he had finally realized exactly how bad the fae were. They had moved on from petty animals and taken a human, a _human like Arthur_, and they had killed him before his eyes.

And Arthur had realized that the fae truly were not to be angered. Because with so little regard for any life, what did he mean to them?

He was just a teen that couldn't even survive in his own household.

"Closin' time," a voice said, and Arthur woke from his memories. Numerous empty bottles and glasses were spread about before him, and he immediately began to peel bills from his wallet.

"You feelin' okay?" the tender asked him, and Arthur nodded silently. Then he placed the bills on the counter and stood. "Lemme call y' a cab."

"No need." Arthur tightened his jacket. "I live fairly close to here. It's a short walk."

"Jus' don't get lost in the woods!" the tender chuckled, though he sounded rather put out. "More people end up dead in there!"

Arthur stiffened. "People have been dying in there?"

"Well, not for about a month, but b'fore? Body a week. Exposure an' wild animals. Tha's why no one wants their kids in there. Ev'ryone gets lost and eaten!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Arthur said, and he left the bar.

The fae chose that time to reappear.

"You've been killing people," Arthur said bluntly.

_"Arth~"_

"I said no killing people," Arthur snapped. "Damn it, you're supposed to listen to me on that aspect! I don't care what you do with bloody cats and dogs, but leave people out of it!" He cut off, staring ahead blankly. "This must be why the reaper always comes, because you can't keep your bloody talons off a couple ruddy humans." Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I don't want a reaper anywhere near that property anymore, you understand? No more killing humans!"

The fae didn't answer him.

But he didn't expect them to. The were obviously angry, and they felt that he deserved their rage. The feelings went both ways, and Arthur began to mumble under his breath, threatening curses and hexes and whatever else it was that the fae would find intimidating. He didn't really care at this point, but his name was on the title of the land. If people kept dying, the blame would eventually fall on him, and he would be punished while the damn fae partied in his house.

"Of all the things you could've have done to _amuse yourselves_, you had to pick humans."

The fae hummed softly, and Arthur narrowed his eyes. He entered the path of the woods and the Fae scattered.

Then he was yanked back.

Arthur hadn't rebelled those years ago only to forget everything he had ever learned. With his assailant holding onto his scarf and tugging, Arthur easily slipped it off and listened as his attacker stumbled back. Then he grabbed the stranger's shoulder and wrenched him back, his cigarette hovering dangerously close to the man's closed eyes.

Then he was grappling with the man, trying to fight him, to _kill_ him.

And the nearest tree was suddenly raining red pine needles, _dead pine needles_, and his attacker was struck by the sight, caught in awe and staring at the cascading wall of crimson. And Arthur observed this all with a clear head, telling himself to remain cold, ready to kill. Arthur was ready to send him straight to hell or the hospital, his determination strong, but then his attacker looked up at him.

Clear blue eyes. Blond hair.

Stupid glasses.

"We need to talk."

Arthur glared at him. "You really think that jumping me in the middle of the night is going to make me want to talk to you?"

"It's important."

"You need me to chaperone you?" Arthur asked sarcastically.

Jones was obviously nearing his limit. "The coffee, you dumbass! I want to talk about the coffee!"

"Don't drink it," Arthur said dryly.

"But you sure as hell know how to dump it." Jones narrowed his eyes, repeating his earlier words: "We need to talk."


	5. Chapter 5

Neither man said anything for a long time. Arthur stared incredulously at Jones, his lips parted in apparent confusion.

"Please don't tell me you're blaming me for dumping your drink," he said, blinking.

"Don't even try t' pull that "I dunno what you're talkin' 'bout" bullshit with me!" Jones growled.

"Can't say it's bullshit, especially when you say it like that." Arthur scowled. "Does every American have the need to shorten English words and sentences into barbaric babbling? Or is it just you?"

"Damn it, don't distract me!" Jones shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at the Brit.

"It takes that much to distract you? I must say, I'm astonished by the fact that you can still remember to breathe, what with everything going on around y-"

"Will you just shut up?" Jones cut him off. "I know you broke the coffee cup! You might not've touched it, but I know you broke it!"

"And how, pray tell, did you come to that conclusion?" Arthur sighed, but before he could continue, Jones had jumped in to fill the silence.

"Your hands," he said loudly. "They got colder when the cup broke."

"You're basing this on an assumption that my hands were cold?"

"Everything 'bout you 's cold," Jones continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "Like when you were outside the cafe. You were freezing cold before I went in, and when I came out you looked surprised." He glowered at the Brit. "You must've known the place was gonna burn. And when it wasn't in danger, you were surprised. An' warmer." He motioned to the piles of pine needles on the ground, that had been emptied from their trees. "An' you did that, too! You got colder, and then those needles fell outta the trees!"

"I think you've talked enough," Arthur decided. "I don't have time to listen to your psychobabble, and-"

"You could help people," Jones said loudly. "I know about the woods. You could save people in there, instead of leaving them for the animals. You could've done something about them."

Arthur sighed and bit his tongue. Jones continued on, and he finally understood.

Jones wasn't taking no for an answer.

He knew, and he wasn't going to let Arthur lead him away from the truth.

"What have humans ever done for you?" Arthur suddenly said, and Jones fell silent. The man's eyes resembled those of an owl as he stared at Arthur, and Arthur continued. "Humans are selfish creatures, there is no denying that fact. I myself am selfish. As are you. Why the hell should I waste my time and energy helping them when I get nothing beneficial in return?"

Jones opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked confused, then found his tongue and quickly retorted, "I'm not selfish!"

Arthur sighed. Such a pathetic defense. "Think about it. I don't know what the hell you do, and I don't care. But you're _special_, yes?"

"Of course I am! I'm a freakin' hero!"

"So you hold yourself higher than others, _better_ than them." Arthur didn't give Jones a chance to cut in. "As such, you deem others worth _less_ than you. You selfishly feed your own egotistical thoughts. Every deed you accomplish does _not_ go unnoticed, either. If you truly cared for the wellbeing of others, and not the attention, then you would act without caring about being noticed. You're a selfish and egotistical young man without regard for the feelings and health of other people. You care only about the attention." Arthur paused, stared at the man. "You understand now, Jones? You're not special. You're simply trying to push your pathetic and childish ideals on others to make them conform to your standards. If you think they can act the way you want them to, you'll try to press the issue. Have you no shame?" Arthur turned on his heel, leaving Jones standing there. "I suggest you stay out of the forest," Arthur called back loudly. "I imagine you'd taste particularly sweet."

"Now wait just a god damned minute!" Jones suddenly shouted, and he marched towards the forest. Arthur didn't bother stopping to hear him out; he simply continued past the edge of the trees, stepping onto the worn path. "You have no right to tell me what I am and am not! You son of a bitch, get back he-"

Jones suddenly stopped, staring at the entrance of the path in shock. An intricate spiderweb had appeared, connecting the trees on either side of the open space to form a sort of door. He reached up a hand, then abruptly pulled it away as a spark jumped out at him.

"Kirkland!" he shouted, but Arthur simply turned the corner and disappeared into the darkness.

The fae had been eager to see his reaction to Jones the night before, and were sorely disappointed by his letting the man leave alive. From the time he stepped into the house 'til the time he fell asleep in his bed, they hovered nearby and bothered him, chiding him and scorning him.

The next day was almost as bad, except that he managed to escape outside into the sun, into the garden where the fae refused to step.

And so he worked there in silence, pulling weeds and checking the growth of the herbs until the sun went down.

The fae enjoyed death, and as such they detested his garden. The place where he brought life to plants and stocked his cupboards, they couldn't enjoy it, or tolerate it.

And so they left it alone (though he did occasionally have to reinforce their wariness, give them reason to stay away from the soil and seeds).

"Basil and oregano are ready," Arthur mused as he clipped the stems. "So the rosemary should be about dried. And the mint will probably be ready to grind in a week."

Arthur raised his eyes when he felt the wind shift, and he found a large shadow blocking the light of the sun.

"Brilliant," he muttered. "Will you move? And get off the property while you're at it."

The reaper did nothing. Not that Arthur had expected any less. Reapers were as detestable in character as their job would imply. Silent, cold, menacing.

There were countless reapers in the world, and Arthur could remember meeting seven. There had been nothing special about them, except that one had been able to talk.

That reaper had intrigued Arthur. It had talked in riddle, rarely being to the point about anything.

But when it did speak to the point, its words were full of wisdom, and sometimes even malice.

But its malice was never aimed towards living humans, or dead humans (though it had gone on a tirade about Hitler once, about how the workload had suddenly increased and reapers had begun to simply appear from nothing, overrunning the worlds of both living and dead).

Its malice had been aimed towards the fae.

Arthur hadn't asked why it was so against the fae. He hadn't had to.

The reaper had gone on, its empty voice rising and falling with the conflicting and volatile emotions that the reaper apparently felt (something that surprised Arthur, for he had never known the harbingers of death to feel anything about the living world.

_"They intrude on our domain,_" the reaper had said, _"destroy what is ours to rule. They move between living and dead, hold souls in this world, imprison them in the other. Beings that see us fear us._

_"What they should fear are the fae."_ And then the reaper had watched him with its empty eyes. It had measured his will, his _heart_. And then it had fallen back to speaking in riddles and tongues, leaving Arthur to think about its words.

He had never realized that the fae were a problem to other beings. He had always known that they were violent towards humans and animals, but to the other "mystical" beings like themselves?

That had surprised and disturbed him far more than the murders had.

Arthur looked up from his garden as the reaper moved away. "I hope you're not here to take another soul," Arthur called out. He snipped the herbs before him, then the reaper hissed.

Arthur looked up quickly to see the reaper shake its head and disappear, and he furrowed his brows. He'd never heard a reaper hiss. It was like a snake, but far deeper. The reaper disappeared into the forest, and Arthur took the stems of the herbs before him and returned to the house.

_"What have you now?_" the fae sang when he returned to the house. He ignored them and tied a piece of twine around them, then hung them on a hook in his kitchen. Then he pulled a bundle of herbs from another hook, being careful not to snap off the dry leaves as he set it down on the counter and began to search through cupboards.

"Where'd you put the mortar?" Arthur asked loudly, and he was answered by giggles. He scowled, then turned around. "I need it _now_. Or do you not want me to reinforce the barrier around the property?"

The fae were suddenly dancing and singing, and Arthur yanked open the silverware drawer.

The stone mortar rattled within the drawer, and he pulled out the pestle with it. In a single, experienced motion, he had slid his fingers along the stem and broke off the leaves, brushing them into the mortar and beginning to grind them with the pestle.

_"And why to you need to reinforce the barrier?"_ the nearest of the fae asked, and Arthur scowled.

"Because I've apparently been too lenient with you," Arthur growled. "Killing people... Honestly!" He began to grind the rosemary more enthusiastically. "At least the barrier will give me a bit of peace."

At that, the fae left him. He wasn't surprised. The barrier was meant to keep them contained within, and prevent them from leaving the property. The only time they were actually able to leave the property was when they were with him, and it had seemed to work rather well.

That didn't mean he wouldn't go out later with ground peppermint to further strengthen the barrier to keep them inside whether he was with them or not.

But he wouldn't tell them that idea. If they ever found out about that, they would likely attempt to destroy the garden.

Once he poured the ground rosemary into a glass jar, he turned around to find that the television had been turned on, and that the fae had gathered around it.

_"It's that man again!"_ they sang as one. _"He saved a child!"_

They didn't sound very happy about the idea.

"Let him do what he wants," Arthur said. He passed into the next room, past the staircase that led to the upper floor and the bedroom, and he settled down at his desk. "He's not going to be bothering us again any time soon."


	6. Chapter 6

The next day found Arthur mixing together ingredients, making a large container of a green fluid that didn't really resemble anything. He affixed a spray nozzle to the lid as the fae watched him with wary eyes, and then he left the house the travel the perimeter of the property.

No one would say that it was nice out. The skies were rather overcast, and Arthur expected that it would rain later. There was also a feeling on the wind that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Despite the questionable weather, Arthur enjoyed the trip around the property. It was nice to take a walk with no true destination every once in a while. It cleared his mind and left him feeling at peace, helping him to forget the troubles and ailments that had bothered him for the last few weeks.

"Mother liked gardening," he found himself murmuring as he walked. He wasn't sure if he missed her or not. She always seemed to come to his mind when he let it wander, whether he wanted her to or not.

When Arthur passed the entrance to the path, he brushed aside the cobwebs and sighed. It was such a shame that he had to go to such lengths to make the git disappear. Jones was just a busybody, someone far too interested in himself to realize that others were not like him.

While Arthur thought, he found that he had reached the end of the mixture, and had made the complete loop around the perimeter. Content with the job well done, he returned to the house.

Only to find that reapers (_reapers, plural!_) had infested his house.

"God damn it, get out of my house!" Arthur shouted. He stormed in through the front door, casting glares in the directions of the scattered fae. They had done _something_, something so _heinous_ and _vile_ that he was forced to stand around helplessly as reapers drifted through the halls and his rooms.

He grit his teeth, hating the fact that there was no way to make them leave. You couldn't just _kill_ a reaper. How in the hell would it work, anyways?

Arthur grabbed his jacket and an umbrella as he marched to the door once more, but the television caught his eye.

"And a man rushed into the office, stopping the attackers and saving countless lives. And now we go to Mitch for-"

Jones. _Again._

Not that it mattered. Arthur yanked on his jacket and slammed the door shut behind him.

Despite the bar's depressing atmosphere, Arthur found it to be one of the more interesting places in town. After spending hours in the cafe across town, it was a relief to finally step into the bar and let his troubles drift away.

It helped when the tender remembered you and your drinks, Arthur mused as he downed his drink, especially when you'd only been there once.

And the fact that it hadn't fallen to the nation's overzealous attempts to ban smoking in all locations was a bonus.

Arthur lit his cigarette and relaxed on his stool, watching a group on the other side of the dark room. It was a group of men, three or four of them (they were stumbling so much it was hard to tell), and they were all laughing and cheering (probably a new father in the group). Then they were playing a drinking game, and "big burly man number one" was throwing the first punch at "short skinny guy number two," and even through the fight their companions were laughing and giggling.

"You know 'em?" the tender asked, obviously bored.

"No, no," Arthur said. He took a swig of his beer. "I just find them fascinating."

The tender laughed. "Guess so. Just hope they don't go too far. Don't want to replace any tables or chairs."

"Hmm." Arthur looked back down at the table's surface, then he checked his watch. It had been roughly three hours since he had left the house, and he truly hoped that the reapers had finally taken off. He could hear the rain on the roof of the bar, a steady patter and pinging noise. It was beginning to give him a headache.

The thunder wasn't helping.

"Guess I should go," Arthur sighed as he dropped money on the counter. The tender nodded his head as Arthur slid from the stool, placing his cigarette between his lips and using his free hands to work the door and open his umbrella when he left.

The rain wasn't really a bad thing, Arthur decided. He couldn't understand how some people insisted that rainy days were the cause of their ill tempers; weren't they just fickle?

He hummed as he walked, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Who said rain was depressing?" he asked aloud, then he looked to the side. "Well, for you I suppose it would be."

The man in the alley was limp. Arthur knelt before him, looking at his blood caked hair and the streams that had dripped from his mouth down his chin and neck, drying a dusty crimson.

"Seven broken ribs? Well, that doesn't look like a lot of fun." Arthur leaned forward. "Shot a couple times? You should have watched your back. This is a city after all." Arthur settled back, watching the man. He took in the pale skin, whiter than paper, and the dark bags under the lifeless eyes. "You're a perfect corpse, Jones. Shame, isn't it? No one's here to see you die except for me, and, well... I'm sure you'd prefer it to be some news station so that you would be remembered and praised forever, a hero after fighting a great enemy. Would I be correct in thinking that?"

But Jones didn't answer him.

"Poor lad," Arthur said, and he stood.

"Such a fool."

Arthur didn't really remember the trip back home.

All he remembered that it had been wet, and he currently had a cold to keep him occupied.

Brilliant.

The fae were singing death when he had returned, and the single remaining reaper had fled as though he had been on the verge of exorcising it (or whatever one did to get rid of the damn things).

Arthur was silent as he mixed various herbs before him together, cutting the sage into small squares and adding the lobelia and the charcoal. He put the mix (plus water) into a saucepan and let it simmer, watching with amused eyes.

Jones had been an unexpected sight on such a night. The fact that he had seen him, in all his bloody broken glory, on a stormy night was priceless! It was very Hollywood. And he imagined that Jones would have found it entertaining had it not been the fact that _Arthur_ was the one that had found him.

Arthur decided that the concoction had simmered for long enough and pulled it from the stove, letting it set for a few minutes.

Jones had obviously been clumsy. Poor, pathetic fool. Probably turned to smile at a pretty girl during one of his daring escapades and got himself shot for it.

_"Whatever are you doing?"_

He was surprised the fae had waited such a long time to ask him something.

_"It's the dead boy, isn't it? Silly Arthur!"_

"Yes, the dead boy," Arthur said sarcastically. "Because nothing in life is interesting if it's not dead, right ladies?"

The fae lit up excitedly and disappeared, leaving Arthur to his pan of water and herbs. He grabbed a small pile of fabric from the counter, as well as a pot holder, and he headed up the stairs to his bedroom.

"Still unconscious, I see," Arthur said. He set the objects down on the end table and lifted one of Jones's eyelids. "Still looking rather corpse-like as well."

Arthur carefully manuevered the shirt and jacket from Jones's body, gently tapping his chest. He could feel where the ribs had snapped, and he sighed.

"A fool," he stated. "Stupid, arrogant git." He looked at the holes left by the bullets (which he had painstakingly removed upon arriving at the house), then slipped a piece of gauze through the mixture in the pan before setting it on Jones's chest, covering one of the holes.

"Should help the aches and the bleeding," he said conversationally. "I've never done it with bullet wounds before, but it worked once when someone tried to stab me."

Arthur looked far too cheerful considering he was dealing with a body that looked undoubtedly dead.

"You are far more likable when you can't open your mouth," he added as an afterthought. He pressed a blanket down over the man's chest, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Six broken ribs? It was seven an hour ago. My, my, you really are an interesting fellow. Course, you might want to try actually taking bigger breaths sometime soon. The lack of oxygen will eventually kill the brain. Even if you don't use it often, it's better to keep it alive in there."

As Arthur spoke, he soaked more and more pieces of gauze in the pan, resting them on the American's beaten body and covering them in a towel.

"I'm guessing you don't take any supplements or vitamins," he continued his one-sided conversation. "I'll go see what I have for you, Jones."

Arthur left the room and moved down the stairs, heading back for the kitchen and glancing through the medicine cabinet.

_"Why are you keeping him?"_

The lone faerie approached him, its eyes glowing a bright red.

_"He's a threat!"_

"More of a project, actually," Arthur said. "I'm bored. And you'd do best to leave him alone. I'm not hosting another reaper party. Tell the others that the American is not to be touched."

The faerie disappeared and Arthur pulled a few bottles from the shelf, checking the labels quickly before ascending the stairs once more.

"I've some zinc and vitamin c," Arthur said, dropping them into a glass of water he had left beside the bed some time before. "You'd better not drown. That would be boring and pathetic."

Once Arthur was satisfied that the pills had dissolved enough, he placed an arm behind Jones's shoulder and lifted slowly. Then he placed the rim of the glass to the man's lips and parted them, forcing him to drink it.

"Cheers!"


	7. Chapter 7

After two days, Arthur was seriously regretting bringing the American into his house.

The healing that Arthur had noticed the man going through had either stalled or ended altogether. Three ribs had healed in record time, but there had been no change after that. Jones had just laid there, his chest rising noticably once every few minutes.

And it was slightly aggravating how he had to change the bandages and make more poultices. And when the infection had made itself known, well, that had been yet another pain in the arse. The fae had had a field day with that one, and he had been forced to make a barrier around the _room_ to keep them the hell out of it.

"He didn't come here dead, he's not leaving here dead either!" Arthur had snapped when they had finally gotten it into their heads to kill Jones. That had also been the day that yet another reaper had made its appearance. "Get out of the house and leave me alone, for once in your annoying little lives!"

Since then, he hadn't seen all of the fae together. Occasionally one would pop in and try to get him to remove the barrier, but it would leave quickly after a harsh comment.

Arthur was also regretting the decision to let the man stay in his bed. That meant that he had to sleep in the neighboring guest room, with the ancient mattress and the window that was always broken. The draft was terrible, but he had taken in enough blankets to keep himself warm during the night.

"You're not bloody killing him!" Arthur growled as he walked to his bedroom, a pan of the poultice mix and bandages in his hands. "How many times do I have to bloody tell you that I'm not removing the bleeding barrier?"

Arthur ended the conversation by entering the room, and the faerie gave a huff and disappeared.

Jones was still unconscious. Arthur set the items on the end table and began to feel away the towels and bandages, replacing them with the new poultices.

"Mmmrgh."

Arthur said nothing as Jones moaned, his head turning slightly. The man moaned again, though the moan was cut short by a choking gasp.

"'m I dead?" Jones finally choked out.

"You really are as stupid as I thought you were," Arthur grumbled. "Why in the hell would I bring a dead person to my home?"

"Kir'land?"

"Will you stop talking? Your voice is as aggravating as theirs." Arthur set one of the many poultices on the man's chest, and Jones hissed in pain.

"Don't be a child. This is nothing."

"Wh'm I a' your house?" Jones grunted, his eyelids fluttering as Arthur worked.

"Belt up." Arthur set the last poultice in place and wrapped it with a blanket. Then he threw the old bandages in the waste bin and grabbed the pan. "Go to sleep. You're in miserable shape."

Jones had remained silent after his first attempts at conversation. Arthur didn't find it at all alarming. The git was a talker, but pain was a good way to shut someone up (and it wasn't like he had any morphine to give the man; he was stuck with Advil and ibuprofen).

It had been a day since Jones had woken up, and Arthur decided it had been long enough. He walked upstairs with a large ceramic mug and a pot, being pursued by one of the faeries yet again.

"No, it's not poison. What did I tell you before? He came here alive, he's leaving alive."

And he stepped into the room.

Jones was watching him through tired eyes, the dark patches on his face making him look weary and old.

"Why'd you bring m' here?" Jones mumbled as Arthur set the pot down on the table.

"Shut up and drink," Arthur snapped, and he raised the mug to Jones's lips. "I told you before that I was selfish. I just wanted to see if I could save the life of something. I'd never done it before. It's a curious thing, human life. So weak, like the flame of a candle."

Jones started to choke, and Arthur pulled the mug away with an expression of disdain.

"I'm going to have to burn those sheets now," he said as the liquid dribbled from Jones's mouth to the bed. "And probably the mattress, as well."

"Th' hell is that?" Jones looked at Arthur with wide, confused eyes. "That's disgu-"

"It's not supposed to taste good," Arthur snapped, and before Jones could protest, he had raised the mug to Jones's mouth and tipped it up once more. "It's merely meant to help your insides heal as well as your outsides. Your ribs are coming along nicely, and the bullet wounds are beginning to fade."

Jones coughed when Arthur removed the mug, and he winced when his body shook.

"I suggest you take it like an adult and not stress yourself," Arthur said as he refilled the mug. "Otherwise those ribs are going to hurt so much more."

Arthur raised the mug to Jones once more, and this time the American forced himself to stay still.

"It does make me wonder, though. How does one go from thwarting a hostage situation to dying in an alley in a single day? You're not as good as you thought you were, Jones."

Arthur pulled the drink away and Jones cringed. "I know."

"So you do?" Arthur placed the mug down and started away.

"I didn't know what to do," Jones breathed, and Arthur looked back. "Can you believe that? I'm a hero, I save people. And when he pointed that at me...

"Why am I doing this?"

"I'm not going to give you any answers, Jones," Arthur said.

"What you said isn't true about me," Jones was quick to say, and he winced when he shifted in the bed. "I'm not like... I'm not what you said I was. I help people."

"But you hesitated when you found yourself looking down the barrel of a gun," Arthur finished for him. Jones didn't move. "The moment you began to doubt yourself was the moment you realized that everything I told you was true, Jones. Now belt up and get some more sleep."

"I don't want to fucking sleep."

"Jones, lay down."

"I've got to-"

"Jones, LAY DOWN!" Arthur roared, and the mug beside the bed shattered. Jones stared at Arthur with wide eyes, and Arthur took a few steps back towards the bed. "I believe I've been patient enough with your sorry arse. I brought you into this bleeding house alive, and you'll leave here alive. If you insist on moving about and risking further injury, I will take you back to the city and leave you in a ditch, where nature and gangrene can decide what to do with you!"

Jones sat back in the bed, shocked into silence.

"Don't think I won't do it, Jones. Your blood won't be on my hands if I leave you to rot, and WILL YOU GET AWAY FROM THE BLEEDING DOOR!" Arthur swore at the fae, and they fled, singing their hymns joyously.

Arthur took a deep breath, calming himself before he did anything he would regret later. There was silence, broken only by the sound of an out-of-tune piano.

"Who were you shouting at?" Jones finally asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"The fae seem to want to kill you," Arthur muttered.

""Fae"? As in... Fairy?"

"Don't test me, Jones," Arthur growled.

Jones swallowed. "Then... who lives with you?"

"What?" Arthur shook his head. "No one lives with me."

Jones was trembling at that point. "Then who's playing the piano?"

"Probably Jonathon, tone deaf git doesn't understand the damn thing's not tuned." Arthur leaned out the door. "Jonathon, stop the racket!"

"So you have company."

Arthur looked back in the room, and he could see the color draining from Jones's skin.

"Of course not," Arthur said. "The house is haunted, and they refuse to leave."

Jones let out an indescribable sound, and Arthur could imagine that it was a reflection of his terror. His entire body shook, his breaths came in gasps, and his body flinched as jolts of pain from his broken ribs surged through him.

"For the love of- you're scared of ghosts?" Arthur scowled as he walked over to the man, forcing him to lay back down. "This is a bit much for something you can't even see, Jones. Honestly. One would think you were being hunted by one of your country's glorious axe murderers."

Arthur left Alfred to scavenge through the drawers of his bureau, looking through pills and liquids of questionable origin. He finally decided on a bottle of red tablets and walked back to the bed.

"I really hope your _overreaction_ is from the pain. It would be quite pathetic if this reflected your true personality." Arthur lifted Jones's head up slightly and dropped a few tablets into his mouth, covering it and forcing him to swallow.

It took a moment, but soon the results of the pills became obvious. Jones's limbs became limp, his breathing slowed, and he dropped into blissful unawareness.

"You really are more favorable when you sleep," Arthur decided. He pocketed the bottle of pills and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Damn it, Jonathon! I told you no!"


	8. Chapter 8

"My friends are probably worried."

"Hmm."

"Where're my glasses?"

"You didn't have them when I found you."

"Do you have any burgers?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You can't even eat solids. Do you want me to buy one and put it in a blender?"

Arthur tuned the other man out before Jones would reply. He stirred the water in the pot as he prepared the poultices, and he began to place the gauze back over Jones's injuries.

The man had finally stopped screaming about the ghosts in the house, apparently believing that if the fae couldn't get to him, then the ghosts couldn't either (which was complete bullshit, but Arthur wasn't going to tell him otherwise).

Of course, he had also been talking about the impossibilities of faeries and whatnot, which had only served to piss off said fae. Arthur had had to reinforce the barrier both inside the house and outside the property, and he had placed the medicines and herbs in a place where the fae wouldn't be able to poison them.

After all of this, he wasn't surprised that Jones had been shot. If he himself had a gun, he would've shot the man multiple times just to see him bleed.

It seemed that Jones had finally given up on conversation, as he laid back and let Arthur finish his work.

For that, Arthur was impressed and a little bit surprised. Once he had finally finished with the bandages and decided that he should probably go downstairs and get him one of the protein shakes he had bought, as well as the medicine he had stocked in his cupboards.

He had reached the door when Jones finally spoke again.

"I bet you're like this because you're lonely," Jones said loudly.

Arthur stared at him, his eyes narrowed in thought. "What makes you think I'm lonely?"

"You never have friends over. You have fairies." Jones looked at him with pity. "I bet they're all back in Australia, right?"

Arthur laughed. Jones watched him, his eyes that held no real emotion.

"You can't miss something you've never had," Arthur chuckled. "Lonely? Ah, that's rich. And I'm English, not Australian, you idiot." Arthur continued out. "Lonely. That's a new one, right?"

The fae looked almost angered by the thought, and one of them grabbed onto Arthur's arm possessively.

"Yes, yes. You're the only ones for me, after all. Not like I have any choice in the matter." Arthur walked down the steps and into the kitchen, pulling open the protected cupboard of medicine and other items that he had found for the man.

Arthur was silent as he worked, listening to the fae. They had stopped their death hymns, likely because they had finally realized that Jones wasn't going to be their victim in the near future.

Instead, the fae sang the songs that Arthur had fallen in love with as a child. He wasn't sure why they had changed back to those particular songs, but he found a sort of solace in them.

His mother really had been beautiful, he mused as he worked. Long golden hair, vivid green eyes that had mirrored his own.

She had given him enough love to make up for the love his siblings and father refused to give. She had called his eyes "emeralds," and had laughed when he had told her that her eyes were far more beautiful.

He couldn't remember much about his mother. When he had turned fourteen, he had fled his home. His father and uncles had given him money _if he would just leave_.

He had never regretted that decision. He was sure that his mother found some relief once he was gone. He had always been different, and as he aged it had become painfully clear that he wasn't _normal_. He was a child that refused to conform, a child that had violent and dangerous fits, as though possessed by a demon.

The day he had joined the gang had been the most exciting day of his life. The day he had left the gang (and a half-dead leader) behind had been the climax of his short life.

And the day he had boarded the plane and left the tiny island nation had been his best moment.

Arthur suddenly tripped, and he blinked.

Two hours had passed.

Two hours where he had apparently been dreaming while making the drink.

The fae watched him warily, and he shook his head. The drink was done, and he poured it into a large glass before heading back up the stairs.

"Took you long enough," Jones complained when he entered the room.

"I could have chosen not to come back, so don't be smart," Arthur snapped. "Drink up."

"But this is the same stuff as-"

"Be happy you're getting anything," Arthur said, and he sat down in the chair beside the bed.

Jones grumbled something incoherently and pulled himself up a bit so that he could drink.

"So what were you doing down there? I mean, come on, two hours for a drink?"

"What makes you think that I spent all of that time on your drink?" Arthur tilted his head to the side and sighed condescendingly. "Not everyone is as stuck on you as you think they are."

Jones's expression dropped and he drank his meal in silence. Arthur reached under the bed and pulled up a book, which he flipped through quickly and began to read.

"You should talk to me," Jones said.

"There is no need for me to talk to you," Arthur muttered. "I'd like to point out that I kept you from dying. I don't owe you anything, whether it's conversation or food. Remember that."

Jones pouted and returned to his drink. "What'd you do down there anyways?" he muttered between gulps. "House was freezing." He looked suspiciously at Arthur. "Were you cursing people?"

"Another rib healed," Arthur muttered, not looking up from his book. "At this rate you'll be gone in a few days."

"Really?" Jones looked ecstatic, and Arthur nodded.

"Just remember, when you leave, you can't come back here. Ever."

"Who'd want to?" Jones laughed. "This place is depressing!" He took another sip and pursed his lips. The concoction that Arthur made was bitter, and at the same time burned his throat. Jones glared at the cup, but Arthur wasn't in the mood for conversation. He had continued on in his book, and the room fell into silence once more.

Jones was obviously uncomfortable. He kept fidgeting and wincing, looking around the room as though he thought that something would pop up and give him something to talk about and play with.

"I have a brother," he said suddenly.

Arthur gave a hum as he turned the page in his book.

"His name's Matt, but I call 'im Mattie. He's in college right now."

"You'd be a better person if you were there," Arthur muttered.

Jones continued as though Arthur hadn't interrupted.

"We grew up in Texas, y'know? Ranching and all that. Then Mattie moved off to college, an' I came here." He grinned. "Dad always said we were special. Matt can get away with anything cause people don't notice him much, an' I'm just all around... Stronger, I guess. Y'know, faster, stronger, I can hear better, see better. What was it Dad said?" He fell silent for a moment. "Oh yeah! Heightened senses or something!"

"I'm not interested, Jones. Finish your drink."

"I had a horse named Nike," Jones continued. "Rode him all the time."

"Jones," Arthur warned. "I'm not interested in your life."

"You ever ridden a horse? They're great, an-"

"I've ridden a horse before, I know what it feels like," Arthur grumbled.

"You rode in England?" Jones looked impressed. "Bet it was English though. You should ride Western."

Arthur stood abruptly. "Not interested, Jones. Finish drinking. I'll be back in an hour to get your cup."

Jones watched in confusion as Arthur left, and then the Brit was down the stairs and out the door.

_"Where're you going, Arthur?_"

"Shopping," was Arthur's curt reply as he took off down the path.

Arthur hadn't really wanted to think about horses. He hadn't thought about his old pony in a long time.

He could remember his mother pushing him to ride as a child, a way to distract him from his "imaginary" friends.

He had thought he was an excellent rider at a young age. He had loved it, had been a shining star.

Then his pony had died.

For a nine-year-old, the death of a pet (_Starstruck_, her name had been) was devastating.

Everyone had said she had colicked, something that was unfortunate but common in the equestrian world.

But he had known that she had been murdered by his dear friends, the fae.

And he had known, from that point on, that anything that took his attention away from the fae was in danger of destruction. He had stopped his activities and focused on the fae, appeased them and played with them.

He hadn't regretted that decision either, because he had been graced with magick and beauty. When the fae had him back, they had been sweet to him. They had cherished him, and had washed away all of his doubts.

Sometimes he wished he was still a child.


	9. Chapter 9

"Back again, Gov'no'?"

"Don't even start," Arthur grumbled, and the tender laughed.

"Right, right. Sorry 'bout that. Don't have any regular foreigners besides you."

"Is that right? Same as usual." Arthur settled himself on the barstool and dropped his bag on the floor beside him.

"So how's your invalid?" the tender asked as he prepared Arthur's drink, and he grinned. "Still giving you trouble?"

"I'd rather not talk about him when I don't have to," Arthur said coldly, and he traded his cash for the glass the tender handed over.

"Anyone else would o' left the guy," the tender continued as Arthur drank his beer. "You're a real hero, you know?"

"Don't insult me." Arthur waved a hand as if to erase the comment. "I simply wanted to see if I could do anything. He's not someone I'm particularly fond of."

The bar tender nodded something and left him, humming under his breath.

Arthur stared at the wall and raised his glass once more, finishing it and grabbing the second drink that the tender had left. He had to hurry and get Jones well, because the man was seriously starting to disturb his house and home (and he was aggravating the fae more and more with each passing day).

_"Are you okay?"_

"Ah, bugger off," Arthur grumbled as he pushed open the door. He had obviously had too much to drink, and he was already beginning to feel the consequences.

The morning was going to suck.

"Arthur?"

When had Jones started to call him that? Arthur grunted something unkind under his breath as he started up the stairs, stumbling slightly on the first step and then righting himself for the rest of the short walk.

"You okay?"

"Fuckin' fine," Arthur grumbled when he reached the top of the stairs, then he looked towards the door.

Jones was standing just outside the door, looking both concerned and proud.

And the fae were having a field day.

He was immediately sobered by the sight, as well as the sounds coming from downstairs.

"You idiot, get back in the room!" he roared, but then his attention was diverted by a shining light. "No, you! Get the hell away from the door! I told you, he's not food!"

Jones had stumbled back and grunted, the jarring motions likely hurting his still-broken ribs.

There was a hiss, and a squeal of anger and indignation, and then the banister caught fire and the fae disappeared.

"Fucking bleeding idiot," Arthur growled as he placed his hands on the burning banister, and the flames quickly died down, leaving only the charred wooden remains.

Arthur's frame trembled with anger, and he grabbed the bag at his feet, marching into the bedroom where Jones watched with wide eyes and struggled to get to his feet.

With one hand, Arthur grabbed the boy's collar and yanked him up, tossing him on the bed and dropping the bag on his chest.

Jones gasped with pain, extending and retracting his legs with discomfort, and flinching beneath Arthur's glare. There was a question in the boy's eyes, one Arthur was willing to answer.

"If you're so desperate to run to your death, then so be it. Tomorrow you're out of the house, whether you're in pain or not. I'm beyond caring at this point."

Arthur yanked the newspaper from the bag and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him as he went. The fae watched him from the staircase with bright red eyes, and he marched into the guest room, throwing himself down at the desk and ripping the paper open.

The first thing that caught his eye was an article about a recent fire.

"Git's not as special as he thought he was," Arthur grumbled. The cafe had gone up in flames the night before, and inspectors were saying that it was an electrical failure. "Just because you do something you deem _right_ or _proper_ doesn't mean that it'll be worth anything. Didn't take long at all to burn."

Arthur felt his mood growing worse, and he turned back to the stocks.

"Ought to change again," he muttered. "Else I'm going to lose this one."

The following day was met with silence and suspense.

Jones didn't say a word while Arthur helped him dress, then led him down the stairs and out to the forest.

"You can't ever come back here," Arthur said as they walked, making sure that Jones wouldn't be given the chance to speak. "The day you step foot on this property is the day you die. The fae do not like you, after all of your stupid rambling, and they'll kill you at the first chance they get."

"What was the fire?" Jones burst out before Arthur could continue, and the Brit glared at him.

"That was the fae trying to kill _me_ because I wouldn't let them kill _your_ sorry ass," Arthur snapped, and Jones fell silent.

Content that Jones wouldn't try speaking again, Arthur didn't bother adding any more. He simply enjoyed the sounds of the forest, the shade that the trees overhead cast, and the knowledge that he would soon be rid of the annoyance that had plagued his life for the past few days.

He stopped at the edge of the forest and shooed Jones with a glare, the other man leaving the woods with ginger, hesitant steps.

And when Jones looked back with an expression that Arthur couldn't fathom, Arthur turned back down the path with a scowl, letting the darkness engulf him as he returned to his quiet, _peaceful_ life without intruders.

He would no longer suffer the man's constant whines for attention. He could do his business without interruption, work in the garden without having to listen for the screams of a foolish man being eaten alive by fae.

_"Arthur!"_

Arthur smiled as the fae swarmed him, and he raised a hand. A lone faerie stepped on it, watching him with wide eyes, and he smiled.

"I know, Love. I'm back."

The days passed in a silence that Arthur found simply exhilarating. The fae had calmed considerably, following him from room to room (he had removed the barrier around his bedroom) and chatting.

"If you want something to burn, take the mattress out back and take care of it," Arthur had told them after he had gotten rid of Jones. "I've ordered a new one, and that one's soiled with medicine and drool. Take the pillows and sheets while you're at it."

And the fae had complied giddily, circling the burning furniture as Arthur watched from a chair on the back porch and sipped his tea.

It was pleasant, having the house to himself once more. He no longer had to worry about the daily visits from the reaper, and he didn't have to force any of the ghosts to keep silent while they were doing whatever they did. He watched the fire with a small smile, then finished his tea and returned inside.

Jonathon had taken to banging on the piano once more, and so Arthur made his way to the library.

"Keep quiet for a bit and I'll tune this," Arthur ordered when the spectre entered the room, and he raised the cover of the piano, leaning inside to tune the strings as he wanted. "Don't want you to keep playing the damn thing when it's out of tune, you sound simply horrendous."

Jonathon made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sniff of indignation, and Arthur looked up over the top of the piano. Jonathon was shaking his head and waving a broken hand, the results of his gruesome murder. How he was still able to play properly despite having that form intrigued and confused Arthur, but he had never bothered to question it.

"Give me a minute and it'll be fine for you to play," Arthur told him when he ducked his head back under the top. "Just don't touch that guitar."

Arthur hadn't noticed the fae that had gathered in the room, collecting on the piano bench as he worked.

Then one of them stomped on a key.

"Agh- damn it!" Arthur looked over the top, and the faerie pouted. "I'll go back out in a minute! Just... sit and wait! I'm sure Jonathon will give us some Beethoven to listen to while we watch the fire."

The fae looked calmer at the thought, and Arthur hurriedly finished his work inside the piano.

"It may not be perfect, but it should at least be better than before," he decided when he reappeared above the instrument. He pressed down on a key and listened to the note. "Sounds alright."

Jonathon drifted to the piano and Arthur left the room, the fae following him giddily.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur was quite content with how his life was turning out. Without the annoyance of the added houseguest, everything was better. Even the fae had improved their moods, dancing and charming everything in sight (compared to the curses they had constantly threatened to spread when Jones had been in the house).

Another bonus was that his stocks were going up, and he was getting lucky and his small fortune was growing larger by the day. Sure, it fluctuated often, but in the end he profited (usually by a great amount).

_"Where are you going?"_ the fae cried one evening when he pulled on his jacket, shoving a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

"Pub," he told them. "There's some special event tonight. Don't really care what it is, but beer's cheap."

The fae pouted and he smiled. "I'll be back soon. Promise."

Arthur clicked the door shut behind him and started down the path to the city, lighting a cigarette and relaxing in the cool air. It was already dark, a sign that soon summer would be ending and autumn would sweep into the town. In a way he was glad for the approaching fall, and in turn the approaching winter. It would be a good excuse not to leave the house for a while, and to claim that he had been snowed in for whatever reason (even if it only took a flick of the wrist to shovel paths).

Arthur soon found himself at the edge of the property, and he was thinking of his garden. Soon he would have to get the rest of the herbs and hang them inside. Then he would compost the roots and leftovers (and he could probably use some of the fallen leaves as compost, he was sure he had read that somewhere).

"Nice t' see you again," the tender said when Arthur entered the bar, walking to his usual stool at the end of the bar by the wall. The tender was already pouring Arthur's drink. "Been spendin' time with your invalid?"

"Kicked him out, actually. Been celebrating the last few days." Arthur took the glass handed to him and nodded. The tender looked down the length of the counter and, upon seeing no one needing a refill, settled in.

"You really hated him, didn't you?"

"Great pain in the arse," Arthur told him. It seemed that being relieved of Jones had loosened his lips somewhat. "Where do you buy this? I'm probably going to be snowed in this winter, I'd like to stock up."

"Supplier in California," the tender said, waving a hand. "Sells it cheap in bulk."

"I'll have to look him up." Arthur emptied his glass and waited expectantly for another. The tender chuckled and slid one across to him.

"You got family back in England?"

"Who even knows anymore," Arthur laughed. "I got away from that hell hole as soon as I could."

The tender nodded. "Don't I know how that feels. I left for college and never looked back."

The tender looked proud of the fact, and Arthur kept his mouth shut. He wanted to ask if it had really taken him _that long_ to decide to leave, but he could imagine that he himself was a special case.

"Actually, we just got a shipment from a new company," the tender said suddenly. "You want a taste? On the house."

Arthur hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, why not? It's been a good day after all."

The tender disappeared around the bend at the other end of the bar, and then someone was tugging on Arthur's shoulder.

"Unless you want an eyeful of pain, let go." Arthur waved his cigarette (half gone) threateningly without looking back, then a feeling of dread crept over him when he recognized individual's intake of breath.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" he snapped, and he spun his stool.

If there was one thing about Jones that had changed in the month that he hadn't seen him, it was that the boy no longer cringed when Arthur looked ready to hit him. Indeed, Jones looked unperturbed at the thought of a cigarette being forced into his eye socket.

"I need your help," Jones said.

"Twenty-one and older, get the hell out," Arthur said simply, and he turned back to the bar and waited for his drink.

"Arthur, come on!" Jones whined, tugging on his arm.

"I'm waiting for my drink. Now bugger off. We've already discussed the fact that I don't owe you a damn thing. If anything, _you_ owe _me._ And I'm going to collect on that. Get the hell out and don't bother me again, and we'll be even."

"But there's weird shit going on!" Jones muttered.

Arthur cast an angry glare in his direction. "Shouldn't you still have a broken rib or two?"

"Nope." Jones looked smug for a moment. "I'm in top shape."

Arthur turned a fraction of an inch, looked at Jones's hopeful expression, and kicked him in the chest.

Jones dropped to the floor, and Arthur took a drag on his cigarette. Eyes were suddenly on him, and he shrugged.

"Git tried to take my drink."

And just like that, a serious situation was averted. People went back to their drinks and drunken singing, and Jones groaned pitifully on the floor.

"Usually "top shape" doesn't mean bruising," Arthur murmured to himself. The tender finally chose that time to reappear, and he looked curiously at the man on the floor before passing the drink to Arthur.

"Who's that?"

"Some underage git," Arthur said simply, and the tender left the bar to remove Jones from the building.

Arthur smiled into his drink and watched the tender return among a large group of men that looked like they needed a bullet in lieu of a drink. Office workers. He couldn't imagine.

"Stalking again, Jones?"

Jones hadn't bothered leaving when the tender had tossed him out. Arthur found him leaning against the wall by the door outside, and Jones glared at him. The boy looked rather pale.

"Thanks a lot," Jones said, his eyes dark. "You could have broken something again."

"I was doing that fine establishment a favor," Arthur pointed out. "You're underage and not allowed to be in there."

"And kicking me was doing them a favor _how?_" Jones demanded. Arthur didn't say anything, and Jones snorted. "You're a real piece of work, y'know that?"

Arthur shrugged and sped up slightly, as though the leave him behind.

Jones didn't say anything for a long time. After ten minutes, he finally grabbed Arthur's shoulder (_wrenched it,_ actually), and turned him around.

"You gotta help me."

"No I don't." Arthur looked insulted by the thought, and Jones pointed towards a shop.

"You see that? The damn things are all over the place! And things're-"

"It's a reaper," Arthur said boredly. Jones stopped speaking and looked at him with wide eyes. "A grim reaper? You idiot. It's just hanging around for souls. It'll move on soon enough."

"How do you know so much about 'em?" Jones demanded.

"My house is always filled with them," Arthur answered dismissively. "Are you done yet? I have to get home."

"People are dying!" Jones said quickly.

"Yes, that explains the reapers." Arthur groaned. "Jones, go home. You're being a pain."

"No! No, that's not what I meant! I mean, remember when I was shot? The hostage situation or whatever? All of the people from there are dying! And the cafe burned down a month ago, and that little girl, she was hit by a car, and-"

"Jones, there's something you fail to understand about the world around us," Arthur sighed. "There's such a thing called fate. Fate is inevitable, it can't be easily cast aside. You may have delayed the fate of the people you saved, but they will die. There is no stopping death."

"But I-"

"Enough, Jones." Arthur rubbed his right temple with a hand. "You can't go changing things as you please. They're going to happen anyway, there's nothing you can do."

Arthur didn't think he had ever seen anyone look so lost before. Jones looked depressed at the revelation that everything he had ever accomplished was coming undone, and Arthur tilted his head.

"Go home, Jones. Give up on your damn heroism. It's not helping anybody, and you're just going to run straight to your death."

"I didn't die last time," Jones muttered.

"Because I felt like killing some time," Arthur said. "Now go. Find a good job, get married, just go do something worthwhile."

Arthur turned away and continued on. He didn't hear Jones follow, and he smiled contentedly to himself. Things were obviously shaping up.

Of course, so caught in his thoughts, he never noticed the menacing aura in the skies above, or the dull silver eyes that watched his every step.


	11. Chapter 11

"Fuck."

Arthur stared out the window with narrowed eyes, glaring at the snow on the ground as if he could melt it with his gaze. He had always known that the country had weird weather patterns, but he had never realized exactly _how_ odd they could be.

A snow storm in early October? Yes, he had heard of some in the mountains, but he certainly hadn't expected snow _here._

"There goes the garden," he grumbled. He had hoped to bring in the rest of the herbs, but that was for naught. He could see from the door that the stems were snapped and the leaves were crushed under the snow. He imagined that some could be salvaged, but there was no way in hell that he would go out and dig in the snow to save them.

The fae looked mournful behind him, likely understanding that there weren't going to be any more trips around the property with Arthur.

Instead, they had to settle for petty tricks.

Arthur turned on the water in the sink and sat back, watching as the fae splashed one another and dove under the surface. And every so often the fae would beckon him closer, have him turned the water pink or green with a single touch, and then they would splash him.

Their sudden personality change mystified him. The most he could figure out was that finding that they had him to themselves once more, they were more enthusiastic in gaining his affections and keeping his attention.

He was enjoying it immensely.

_"Where are you going, Arthur?_" the fae whined when he started away from the counter.

"You haven't had honey-water in a long time," Arthur said, and the fae fell deathly silent. "Do you want sugar added to it this time?"

And then the fae were jumping around, splashing colored water around the kitchen and singing like birds. Their antics were amusing and heartening, and he let his lips form a smile.

_"Ah! He's smiling! He's smiling!"_

Arthur smiled as the fae gathered around him, perching on his shoulders and playing with his ears as they watched him pull a small bottle of honey from the cupboard.

It really _did_ feel like he was a child again. The fae were so excited and playful, something that had been missing since before he had left his home.

Arthur clicked through the television channels slowly, pausing on the news and weather stations. It appeared the the weather was isolated to the area because of a cold front and a warm front or something like that (he had no idea what the weather terminology meant, but considering that the snow had risen to roughly two feet... Well, he wasn't going to doubt the man).

There was also quite the buzz in town, as a bus had skidded off the road. He had seen Jones on the television briefly, but despite the man's efforts, at least twelve people had been killed.

And the news had made note of how of those twelve dead, five had been rescued from a hostage situation a month prior.

_"Is something wrong, Arthur?"_ a faerie asked as she rested on his hand, playing with the remote.

"Jones is setting himself up for failure," Arthur told her. He lifted his hand and she fluttered down to the couch. "I'm going to have to go into town and get some groceries, you know." At that, the faerie protested. "I know. I'll get cream for you, alright?"

The fae obviously wasn't content with his decision, and she glowered at him as he walked to the closet and pulled out his jacket.

_"Wear the blue one!" _the fae suddenly called, and he shrugged, switching the jackets.

"I thought you liked the green."

_"But blue is nice too!"_

Arthur shrugged and pulled on the jacket, wiggling his fingers and stretching. "I'll be back in a few hours," he called, but the faerie had disappeared to join her sisters in the make-shift pool.

"Hiding away for the rest of the year?" the cashier asked as she rang up Arthur's groceries. He gave a wry smile and shrugged his shoulders, watching the total on the monitor rise with every beep.

"This snow is crazy," she continued. He noticed that behind her voice was hesitation, and she looked up at him with a fake smile. "You hear about the bus crash? My sister was on it. She got lucky. Said some guy pulled her out."

Arthur nodded. "She's lucky," he told her. _She had a little more time._

"She is! So, so lucky. She even called me up to tell me to stay in work, because she was still going to work and that meant that I couldn't skip."

"Your sister has a sense of humor," Arthur observed, and she laughed.

"Yeah. Yeah she does." The woman looked up. "$406.87," she told him, and he wrote out a check. "You need help with the bags?"

"Of course not," Arthur smiled, and he handed the slip of paper over and took his receipt. "Thank you."

"Thank you and come again!" the woman called as he pushed his cart from the store. He was lucky to have gotten out when he had, because then cars were pulling in as people ran in to stock up for the snow storm. He pushed his cart straight to the cart return, letting it drift in once it was relieved of its burdens (and he really hoped that the fae wouldn't dump all of the food when they found it on the counter).

He wasn't in the mood to return home immediately, and so he turned towards the department store, deciding that he could use a good book and a few guitar picks.

He was finding that he was feeling more and more alive with each passing day. He had decided to pick up his guitar once more, and he had even had a go at the piano (and Jonathon had laughed at him, insulted his technique).

He really needed to get a piano book or something, because while he was feeling good, he was also not in the mood to take shit from a dead man.

Arthur made quick work of the department store. Laden with books and various guitar accessories (not that he needed half of them, but he was in the mood to relive the "good old days"), he trudged back out into the snow and started back towards home.

At one point, he thought he saw Jones duck into a store (most likely to avoid him), and he smiled slightly. The boy was learning.

"Christ, it's cold," Arthur swore, then he noticed that the area had darkened considerably. The snow was coming down far heavier, and he frowned at the thought of remelting the path back to his house.

He ducked in under the awnings that hung out over the sidewalks from the shops and tiny restaurants, wondering at how the lights had gone out.

And then he realized that he was walking among reapers.

Arthur had never seen so many reapers in his life. They filled the streets and the sidewalks, a solid wall across that extended at least fifty feet down the road.

His steps were slower, and he occasionally bumped into one of the reapers, getting a hiss in return for his troubles.

_So cold._

Arthur tried to hurry and get past the reapers, but they get crowding together, making his steps slower.

"Move, damn it!" he cursed, and then he was freed from the ocean of reapers, left to walk at his own pace as they continued on behind him, beyond him.

Arthur sighed in relief and took another step forward, but then it was as though he was frozen in place, unable to move forward or back.

A silver light shimmered in the air before him, the snow reflecting it and making it greater, and Arthur wondered idly if what he felt was fear.

_"I love you Arthur."_


	12. Chapter 12

His mother had died.

Arthur could remember it. How much pain he had felt. How she had looked, hanging from that balcony. There had been blood and bruises, and the thirteen-year-old him wasn't ready for that.

The fae had been split. They had fought over it, over why she had died, if she had _deserved _death. Half had tried to hurt the others, enraged over the death of the one human in Arthur's life, the one stable relationship that he had had.

And he had cracked.

He had forgotten. He had smiled at those fae, _all_ of the fae, had welcomed them into his arms.

Some had cried, some had snickered. But they had all united in their love for him.

His family had found him like that, babbling meaningless words to the air, shell-shocked, before the body of his mother. And he had never said anything about it after that. It had escaped his mind, and after a year he had left home to join the gang. It was true, what he had thought about his relatives. They had given him the money. Wired it to him.

Because he was unstable.

_"You're safe with us,"_ that heavenly voice told him. _"With us forever, Arthur. We love you."_

He had been completely broken. He had escaped from that terror, that pain. He had started a new life. His fae had been with him. They had supported him.

_"We'll protect you."_

Arthur could feel the warmth touch his cheek and slide down his neck to rest on his shoulder, like a loving hand, caressing his cheek.

And then he was being thrown painfully to the side, slamming into the cement sidewalk and gasping. He could feel something move within him, a rib, rubbing against the inside of his skin. His vision turned a hazy white, then a face was above him, staring down at him with wide eyes.

Jones had apparently ordered new glasses.

"What the hell?" Jones demanded. "You almost got hit by a truck!"

"Get off me," Arthur snapped, wrenching himself from his waking nightmare. He looked around, but there were no reapers, no silver light.

No heavenly voices.

"Why the hell were you standing in the road?" Jones demanded. "Did you even hear the horn?"

Arthur started to stand and the breath caught in his throat. Pain raced up and down his spine, and he grit his teeth and straightened his back.

"Leave it, Jones," Arthur said, bending awkwardly to pick up his shopping bag. He gingerly shook the snow from it, and Jones watched him with wide eyes.

"Arthur? You hurt?"

"Bleeding fine," Arthur snapped, and Jones winced.

"No, I mean... Bleeding. Y'know. You're really bleeding. I mean, it was really fast. Maybe the truck hit you before I grabbed you or something."

Arthur looked down and slowly peeled the shirt away from his skin. It was stained a dark color, and he imagined that once he was inside his house, the crimson blood would stand out brighter than anything else.

"Perfect," Arthur said. "Absolutely perfect. Well, Jones, have a nice day. I have things to do."

"A-Arthur! Don't just run away, you're fucking hurt!"

"Thanks to you," Arthur snapped, keeping his back straight and his groans of pain held inside. "Don't fuck up anything else, please, Jones. I have to get back home."

"You think you can manage?" Jones asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"I'll manage perfectly," Arthur snapped, and he marched down the road. Jones was left standing by a shop, watching his disappearing back.

By the time Arthur had neared his house, he was no longer able to put up a front of painlessness.

He gasped as he crawled up the front steps, a trail of blooding connecting him to the forest path. He was finding it hard to breath, and he finally let himself fall back against the doorway. He kept seeing things, _reapers_, _ghosts, demons_ watching him, waiting for him. He didn't know what he was seeing, whether it was his delirious mind or actual beings.

The door opened behind him and he fell backwards into the hallway with a sound that much resembled a cross between a gasp and a moan, and then he was being pulled.

_"Arthur!"_

Panic, horror. Those bright eyes surrounding him, pulling him from the cold and into the warmth of the house, taking him to the fireplace. The logs within suddenly sprang to life, and he could hear the front door slamming shut. The fae hovered around him, appearing and disappearing multiple times in his field of vision. He could feel warmth enveloping him, imagined that the fae were caring for him, helping him.

_What had that been?_

"What was that?" Arthur asked, but it was as though he couldn't form words. His voice didn't come out right, the fae were looking at him with concern and fear. He tried to raise a hand, to touch them, try to connect with them, but his limbs were heavy and cold.

_"Go to sleep," _one of the fae whispered, her tiny voice wavering. He thought suddenly of a leaf, dying in the frost_. "Go to sleep, Arthur."_

And so Arthur let himself fade.

_The light had been so beautiful. The voice had been so sweet. He had wanted to follow it despite his doubts, had wanted to find out exactly what possessed such magick._

_He could envision beauty and grace within the light, a happiness that transcended time and species, dimension and life._

_He had seen life in that light. And he both feared it and loved it._

Arthur felt like he'd been hit by a train (though according to Jones the night before, it had actually been a truck).

His entire body was sore. His back ached from laying on the floor, but the warmth given off by the fireplace seemed to make it a little bit better.

He was covered in blankets that made the warmth almost uncomfortable, and he was tempted to push them off and shove them away. But then he had seen the fae sleeping between the layers, then he had seen the bandages around his midsection, wrapped with delicate hands and panicked hearts (because the fae had hearts in their bodies, right?).

He could feel the injury all too well, and he desperately wanted medicine. He could tell what had happened, knew exactly had serious the injury was.

The rib had snapped when something (either Jones or the truck) had hit him. And when he had hit the sidewalk, it had broken through his skin.

His mind refused to focus on any one topic, and instead it kept returning to the light. The beautiful light that had almost cost him his life, but had kept him safe. The light that-

Arthur took a deep breath and shuddered as pain swarmed his mind. A lone faerie stirred, and when she saw his eyes, she beckoned her sisters.

_"Arthur!"_ the faerie called as her sisters stirred.

"Medicine from the cabinet," he whispered, and the faerie nodded before disappearing. The other fae had finally realized why they were being woken, and they all paid close attention to him, watching his every breath with wide eyes.

"Why are there fae outside the barrier?" Arthur breathed, and the fae looked shocked. "When did they leave? How long've they been out there? The barrier-" He stopped when the other faerie returned with a bottle of pills, and he suddenly felt numb.

No fae should be able to get in or out of the barrier.

The fae had left the barrier before he reinforced it.

For almost two months the fae had been running loose in the city.

In his state, he wasn't able to make much more of his revelation.

Regardless, it didn't sound good.


	13. Chapter 13

The fae were helpful in the most stressful of circumstances. They helped him stand without jarring his chest, and as he walked they steadied his upper body, holding his arms and keeping him from tripping.

They had run the water for him, helped to lower him into the bath, and then he let the water run and wash the crimson from his body. It seemed to take forever for the water to finally run clear instead of vivid red, and then he plugged the drain and let the bath fill.

He had never been hurt like this before, and he was beginning to regret his attitude towards Jones. Kicking him in his bruised ribs must have felt like hell.

That didn't mean he was going to apologize. Jones did deserve to be knocked down a peg or two. He was too... something.

Arthur let his head rest against the side of the bath, staring up at the wall. The fae were all perched on the the side by his chest, and he shut his eyes.

_"Don't fall asleep!"_ one of them shrieked, and he gave a small smile.

"Don't worry; I'm not."

Arthur was still trying to sort his disorganized thoughts through the pulsating ache in his chest.

The silver light had been a fae. One of _his_ fae. And it had been outside the barrier.

It had left him before the barrier had been reinforced.

And soon after, the cafe had burned.

People had begun to die.

Arthur had left everything to fate, but apparently fate wasn't the one upholding the death sentences.

"What the hell are they doing out there?" he asked, but the fae by his side had no answers. They were just as confused as he was.

It hadn't taken long for the pain in his chest to fade. Sure, the rib was still broken, but with the right drugs and a little bit of help from the fae, he could at least pretend it was gone (for a little while). So when a week had passed, he finally decided to leave the house.

Of course, his trip to the town was slow and challenging. The snow hadn't stopped, and the effort to melt a path out was slower than usual because he was more concerned with conserving energy to heal.

The city apparently hadn't taken well to the snow. There were shops open, but few people were on the streets. The streets themselves were covered in a thick layer of snow, and it appeared that the plow trucks were either out of gas or incapacitated. The snow was continuing to pile up, and Arthur found his way into the familiar bar.

The entire town smelled of magick. As Arthur settled into his familiar seat, he waited patiently for the tender to come serve him.

The snowstorm wasn't just unusual, it was unnatural. The fae outside were starting it and keeping it going. They were causing mayhem, and it was going to get worse if he didn't catch them and take them back, force them to stop. He wondered if the fae back at his house could do anything about the snow and weather, somehow nullify it with a similar but opposite power.

"You feelin' okay?" the tender asked when he appeared, sliding a drink over the counter.

"Had a fall a few days ago," Arthur told him. "Nothing serious."

The tender nodded and passed over another drink. "Those are on th' house. You look like shit."

Arthur nodded his head in thanks and the tender left him.

The bar was packed. People were obviously trying to escape the storm in any way they could, most of them deciding that liquor and beer was the way to go.

Roughly half of the occupants were watching a large television that was switching between some sport and the news, and Arthur settled back with a wince, deciding that he would relax, get pissed, and do nothing. He munched on the peanuts as he watched, wondering what the hell was so great about the sport on tv (he refused to call it football).

"Come on!" someone shouted when it cut to the weather. "Fuckin' bitch!"

Usually when he was in the bar, Arthur rather enjoyed speaking with the tender. However, on that day, with so many conflicting emotions and feelings coursing through his body and the air around him, he was relieved that the tender was too busy to start a conversation.

"Belt up and deal!" Arthur shouted when the man continued to shout. The man stopped and looked back, likely trying to figure out what the hell the foreigner had just said to him. "Doesn't look like either team's doing anything, either! Score's stuck at 0-0."

The man sat down, and Arthur felt a sense of pride at the thought that he hadn't even had to hit the man to shut him up.

Then he noticed the tender handing over a couple more drinks.

"You're lucky he didn't come back and beat the shit out of you," the tender chuckled.

"Like to see what he has in him," Arthur said dryly.

"You sound pretty sure o' yourself," the tender said, and then he disappeared into another room.

Arthur turned his attention back to the television, and after a few minutes (and a few dirty looks), he realized that his cell phone was ringing.

"Please don't tell me the stocks are dropping," Arthur sighed when he answered. "Because I am really not in the mood for bad news."

"The stocks are rising, actually, Mr. Kirkland. But that's not it. The news... Well, I mean, there's breaking news, and..."

"Out with it," Arthur snapped, then he looked up at the television.

He almost dropped his phone.

"Your face is on every major news station! It's crazy, they're saying-"

"Belt up," Arthur mumbled, his eyes locked on the television.

A picture of his fourteen-year-old self was on the television, and the tender was sending curious looks in his direction.

"The family is desperately looking for this man. They say he left home as a child, and while they are giving no more details than that, they have revealed that numerous death threats aimed at Mr. Kirkland have been received. They wish to get in contact with him, so anyone with any information is being pressed to call this num-"

"Change the channel!" someone shouted, but quite a few people were looking back at Arthur.

"I'll call you later," Arthur said, and he pressed the "end" button. Then he checked the number on the television and dialed.

"This is the-"

"Yes, yes. The Kirkland hotline or whatever bloody genius name you've come up with. Just get me the number for the Kirklands."

"Who is this?"

"Arthur bleeding Kirkland. Now give me the-"

"I'm connecting you."

The phone beeped as the line was connected, and Arthur tapped his finger on the counter.

"Kirkland resi-"

"What's the meaning of posting my picture on every news station across the US?" Arthur demanded, and the man on the other end fell silent. "I'd like some answers, now."

"Arthur?"

"Who the fuck did you expect it to be? Now give me an answer."

"We've been getting death threats, addressed to you. We thought you-"

"I've had plenty of death threats before," Arthur chuckled. "I know you were aware of those days. What makes these any different?"

"They just started coming by the truck-full a week ago."

Arthur tuned him out to think, slightly surprised. Truckloads of mail, all for his demise. He was rather impressed that anyone would go through that much.

"They all say the same thing, something about a woman named Fae and how she was going to take you back. It was... disturbing." The man on the phone continued, but Arthur's gaze was aimed towards the door, at the blue-eyed man that had snuck into the bar once again.

"Yes yes, fine. You can take down all of your warnings and forget I exist again." Arthur didn't wait for an answer, and he hung up the phone.

Jones was already moving through the crowds, heading straight towards him.

"Something wrong?" The tender had appeared at Arthur's side, obviously begging for answers.

"I saw the news," Jones said immediately when he reached Arthur, "and I can help you."

Arthur looked between the two, and he began to laugh.


	14. Chapter 14

The confused expressions on the other men's faces were priceless.

"You're obviously misunderstanding something," Arthur laughed. "The Kirklands are just putting their names out there. They want some more attention, and are trying to look likable by connecting with a long-lost relative. There were no actual death threats."

He was only _half_ lying. After all, they weren't necessarily death threats. They were more of a warning. Arthur pulled some cash from his pocket and counted it out, adding in a large tip.

"And honestly, you should invest in security," he added to the tender, "as he's obviously underage, but he's been in here quite a few times." He placed the cash on the counter and finished his drink, then grabbed the American's shoulder and dragged him back through the crowds and outside.

"But Arthur, I mean, the fairy thing and everything-"

"Will you just stop?" Arthur demanded once they were outside. He tugged his coat tighter around himself, congratulating himself when he didn't wince at the motion. "I've lived with the fae my entire life. I don't need someone that can't even drink to tell me that everything I've done with them was wrong, or that I should start changing my habits."

Jones, instead of pouting like Arthur was used to, frowned. And it wasn't a sad frown either. It was a frown that said he was not impressed with what Arthur had to say to him.

"When I was at your house, I didn't think you liked the fairies."

"They're mine," Arthur said. "Whether I liked them or not... Well, it's none of your business."

"What were you doing that night anyways?" Jones changed the subject. "You were just standing in the middle of the road. I mean... Did you want to die? I mean, you look really different. Sad, kinda. And-"

Arthur blinked. "Die? I was distracted. Besides, I wouldn't have died. The fae would have saved me."

"Bullshit! That truck was going to kill you, and it-"

"Jones, the world works in mysterious ways," Arthur said, keeping his voice low. It felt like he was speaking to a child. "You can't even begin to comprehand what those words mean, it would take someone like you a lifetime."

"What do you mean, someone like me?"

"The fae are a part of my life, and through them, I've learned more than anyone could possibly hope to know." Arthur looked down the snow covered street, and he watched the reapers for a long time. There were few, but they looked menacing at the ends of the alleys, standing still as the winds disturbed their cloaks. "The world is a bigger place than you think it is, Jones."

"What were you really doing in the road?" Jones pressed, his voice almost desperate.

Arthur sighed. "I was talking to the fae. Apparently some are wandering around out here. I've got to get them home before they start any more trouble."

"Wait, so they're loose? You said they hated me, and-"

"They were out here before you pissed off the ones at my house," Arthur scowled. "And those ones are just fine, now that you're gone. It's been a long time since they've been so tame. Now, I should be getting home. I'd rather like this snow to stop, and I can't do that until-"

"The snow?" Jones's eyes widened. "The fairies started the snow?"

"They're a bit... _rebellious_ at times," Arthur told him thoughtfully. He turned away, and left Jones standing on the sidewalk.

"Do you have any idea what they're doing?" Jones shouted. "You got hurt! It's their fault!"

Arthur waved a hand at him, to shoo him, but then Jones was running up to meet him.

"I can help you with them, y'know? There's this awesome guy I met, and-"

"Jones, go home and get some sleep. I'll do the same. And when we wake up in the morning, we can forget all about this nonsense."

And Arthur left Jones behind him.

"You're doing a wonderful job," Arthur told the fae. He laid back on the couch, watching the snow outside. The sky was brightening slowly but surely, and the flakes had stopped falling. The fae looked unsure of what they were doing, but their magick was working in stopping the storm.

It was a few hours before the sun finally pushed through the clouds, and then the fae were gathering around him, waiting for his praise and words of thanks and the attention he would give them.

"Marvelous," he said, and he gingerly placed a hand on his chest. "You did an excellent job. I'm proud."

The fae were giddy with the praise, and he turned on the television. The news stations were already all over the fact that the snow had stopped, calling it a miracle. Life could go on in the city, and the town could get back to work.

"Take that, Jones," Arthur chuckled. "Ladies, would you mind getting my medicine?" A few of the fae disappeared, and Arthur sighed. He should have bought some beer to bring home. And he wanted to make the fae some honey-water for their troubles. It surprised him how little he could do. Even Jonathon was moping, playing sad songs on the piano (and of course Arthur had told him to play something cheerful, that a broken rib wasn't a death sentence).

"Here we go," Arthur whispered when the fae returned with his bottle. He smiled as he twisted the cap open, shaking some pills out onto his hand and popping them into his mouth. "Thank you, ladies. Thank you very much."

Arthur was rather pleased with his choice in furniture. The couch was wonderful, the most comfortable piece, and comparable to his bed. While sleeping on a couch may be deemed uncouth by some, it was wonderful for injuries that made stairs seem like an invention of satan.

Arthur mumbled something and opened his eyes slowly. The fae were asleep on the chair beside him, and he smiled softly. His pain was a dull ache even without the help of their magick, and he slowly sat up, then struggled to his feet.

The snow outside had melted under the hot sun, and only a few feet were left now, after dark. He hoped that the following days would melt the rest of the snow, and give him at least another month before he had to deal with the damnable substance again.

He was feeling a lot better, much to his surprise, and he decided that he could do with some scones.

He remembered when his mother had made him scones as a child, then taught him. She had left when they had burned in the oven, tried to teach him again, and had then grown confused. Everything he had touched had burned, and while everyone else could taste the charcoal and grit that they claimed to be present, he had never had that problem. Yes, even the country's damned McDonald's tasted better than his food (he had found that out when he had first arrived), well, he had to at least deal with his own cooking to survive. He _could_ taste the charcoal taste on occasion, but he was perfectly willing to deal with poor cooking abilities if it meant that he could keep his friends by his side.

Arthur started the oven and put together the mixture, humming under his breath. Bending was a painful problem, but his hunger seemed more important at the moment. He pushed the ready pan into the oven and sat down at the counter, already drinking the tea that had appeared while he worked (he wasn't in the mood to make tea at the moment, but he _was_ thirsty enough to summon up a cup).

Arthur yawned and looked towards the oven. He could already smell the smoke that his cooking never failed to produce, but it seemed a bit too soon for that. Regardless, he pulled the pan from the oven and set it on the stove top.

It was nowhere near done, and the scones were still raw. Yet the smell persisted.

Then he realized the smell was coming from his bedroom.

The fae were no longer in the living room. Arthur sprinted up the stairs, panting heavily and gasping as the dull ache transformed into a roaring pain. He pushed open his bedroom door, and then he was watching the fae, their silver eyes staring down at his bed.

The bed had caught fire.

It had spread to the walls.

_"We love you Arthur."_


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur jolted upright and grunted as pain shot through his chest. The fae that had been sleeping on him looked back with confusion, their blue eyes clouded with worry.

A dream.

_Just a dream._

Arthur felt his chest, felt the odd lump that was his slowly-healing rib. There was no smell. No fire.

It was just him and the fae.

Arthur leaned back against the couch, ignoring the fae that were panicking around him. He was so tired, exhausted by the events. He needed to get out and go somewhere, just get away, but where could he go? He had no friends, no relatives. And leaving would mean leaving the fae to their own devices.

What he needed was to get the fae outside back into the house. Once they were home, he could try to fix whatever mayhem they had caused, and hopefully, his life of peace would be restored once more.

_"Arthur?"_

"I'm going for a walk," Arthur sighed.

_"But it's two in the morning._"

"I know."

Arthur moved like a zombie, slowly pulling on his jacket then his shoes. The fae watched him leave worriedly, and when he finally shut the door between them, he could hear them start chittering within.

It was cold as he walked down the long path in the woods, and he found himself searching his pockets for cigarettes. He was out, much to his displeasure, and vowed to find the first Seven-Eleven he saw and raid their cigarette counter. He remembered faintly what Jones had said that first day they had spoken, and he chuckled.

"Cigarettes killing me... I've never heard anything so funny."

For he already knew that he would die, unaided by those so-called "death sticks." The reaper long ago had known that, and had told him between its riddles (and he had wondered if telling him about his own death was against some sort of reaper's code, and it had promptly fallen back into riddles).

Arthur had been walking for some time, delighting in the cold air, when he finally saw the twenty-four-hour convenience store. He pushed open the doors immediately, ignoring the reaper that followed him.

The first thing on Arthur's mind was a pack of cigarettes, but then he saw the cases of beer in the back and headed straight for them. He was already scanning them, trying to determine which type would be the best, when a voice spoke to him.

"You're going to die sooner than you thought if you keep up with this charade."

Arthur kept his eyes on a case of green-colored labels. "I didn't know there was another reaper that could speak.

"Most can." The reaper seemed to swell beside him. "It simply depends on whether your friends are present or not."

Arthur tried to determine how many cases he could carry. "So the fae affect your ability to function?"

"When they don't want us to speak, yes." The reaper seemed to watch him as he finally decided to grab two cases, but both stayed in that spot, speaking softly.

"And they don't want you to speak, why?"

"You could live a longer life if you left them," the reaper said, and Arthur cocked his head.

"That so?"

"Those fae will kill you in the end," the reaper continued. "They will kill all things in their desire to own you."

"I guess I just have to keep them under control," Arthur said, and he finally turned to hunt down the register.

"They were ne-" The reaper fell silent, and Arthur placed his items on the counter, aware that the air had changed. Fae had appeared in the area once more, and the reaper hesitated.

"Three packs," Arthur held up his empty cigarette pack, and the man turned around to the case. Arthur watched the reaper from the corner of his eye, but it didn't do anything. It just remained silent, watching him, and then it disappeared.

Arthur handed over cash and grabbed his things, suddenly feeling the need to return home. He waited until he was outside before setting the cases down and willing them to leave, to appear back at his house. Then he was walking quickly, down the streets and to the forest, feeling apprehension and panic twisting inside him, making him lightheaded.

His hands trembled when he finally pushed open the front door of his house, and he was met with silence.

Arthur looked around slowly and clicked the door shut, searching for the fae. He heard a sniff, and he stepped into the library.

"What's wrong?" Arthur moved to the piano, where a lone fae sat on the music shelf. "Are you-"

_"They're gone, Arthur."_ The fae looked up at him, looking lost. _"They all left."_

And Arthur knew that things wouldn't get better.

The fae were out of control.

Arthur quickly realized the truth; the snow had destroyed the barrier. All but one faerie had left him, and he knew that there was no way he would be able to stop the others. The only thing he could hope for was that they would somehow return to his side.

The remaining fae was heartbroken. She didn't do much more than cry and mope, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do.

The others had been quick to prove themselves. Arthur had returned to the bar the following day to drink, eat and pretend that nothing was wrong, but the television on the far wall was proving him wrong.

A freight train had derailed in the early morning hours, killing the conductor.

A gas explosion had killed a family of three.

There had been a thirteen-car pile-up on the highway leading out of the city, and though no one was killed, everyone had been taken to a hospital.

Arthur didn't know what to do. He had been to the used bookstore and searched the shelves, trying to find anything that would help him. Of course, they didn't have any of the older books. He had returned home, searching through the tomes he had brought with him from England, and those he had found during his travels.

Reapers had filled his house once more. The lone faerie had tried to help him as best as she could, suggesting spells and potions.

Arthur drained his glass and left the bar, checking the list in his pocket. There were herbs and ingredients for numerous mixtures, and he hoped that he could find them, and use the resulting concoctions to attract and trap the fae.

"This is all because of the fairies, isn't it?"

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Arthur breathed out, rolling his cigarette between his index and middle fingers.

"Is that one of 'em?"

Jones pointed at the tiny figure that was above Arthur's head, and Arthur nodded. He leaned back against the wall of the building behind him, looking towards the end of the alley that opened into the street.

"She's the only one left," Arthur told him. Jones looked uncomfortable, and Arthur flicked his fingers. "The others left the house."

"I thought you had a barrier."

"The snow destroyed it."

"Are you going to kill them?"

"They don't need to die," Arthur said. "I'm taking them back home."

"They're running wild!" Jones said loudly, waving his arms. "You're thinking of taking them home? Are you nuts?"

"They're my responsibility," Arthur said calmly.

"They're controlling you!" Jones said, and Arthur blinked. "Are you blind? Don't you see it? They're taking advantage of you!"

"Jones, we've known each other for less than two months. I don't think you know enough to decide that."

"But I've talked to people." Jones crossed his arms, shifting his weight to his right leg. "He said that the fairies use people. They stay with them and then they eat them!" Jones lowered his voice. "_The fairies fucking EAT_ _people!_"

"And?" Arthur tapped his foot impatiently. "Jones, I don't know what storybook you picked up, but-"

"He was a professor," Jones interrupted. "He was at some college. Arthur, the point is, they're going to kill-" Jones stopped. He took a step back.

"Jones?"

"What's it doing?" Jones snapped, and Arthur looked up.

The faerie was watching Jones with an expression of fury.

"Calm down," Arthur said softly, but then it spoke to him.

_"You saved him."_

"What?"

_"He was supposed to die in the alley. His fate has to be upheld."_

Arthur stared incredulously at the faerie, then Jones jerked him to the side. He gasped.

"Run!"


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur was unable to do anything as Jones dragged him out of the alley and down the street, passing a pair of confused old women that followed their fleeing forms with their eyes.

Jones didn't seem to be paying attention to anything around them, otherwise he would have seen that the faerie hadn't bothered to chase.

"J-Jones," Arthur gasped, his lungs refusing to keep up with the breaths he desperately needed to take. His half-breaths weren't cutting it, and he tried to grab at Jones's arm, make him either stop or let him go.

Jones seemed to take his movement as encouragement and instead sped up, pulling his arm harder. He ducked into another alley, and then he was yanking on a door. He pulled it open and pulled Arthur inside, though he had at least slowed down.

It was like a basement; dusty, broken furniture, old tables, ancient counter. Arthur collapsed into a chair by the door and gingerly raised his hand to his chest, trying to catch his breath. He scanned the room, and after a moment he finally realized that it was an old restaurant, long out of business.

"Told you y'should stop smoking," Jones told him.

"This..." Arthur took a deep breath, tried to get in as much air as possible. "This's yer fault."

Then Jones noticed where Arthur had placed his hand. "Oh! Yeah, you were hurt- where were you hurt, anyways?"

"Fuckin' rib," Arthur growled. At least, he tried to growl. It escaped his lips as a wheeze.

"You broke it?" Jones knelt down in front of him with a frown, catching Arthur's hand when it went to beat him away.

"What th' fuck you doing?" Arthur snapped, and then Jones pulled up his shirt.

Jones's eyebrow raised, and he whistled. "Damn."

Arthur yanked his arm away and pushed his shirt back down, glaring at the American.

"Keep your hands off me, Jones."

"Just trying to return the favor," Jones told him. "But man, I didn't expect that. Least we lost-"

"She never chased us," Arthur grumbled, and Jones looked back at him. "You did that for nothing, you know? The fae aren't about to hurt me."

Jones watched him carefully, measuring him, then he sighed. "I just... Arthur, man, you have no idea. I talked to the professor, and he knows about these fairies. He's seen mention of them in history, and he knows what they do. They _kill people,_ Arthur! They kill the people they raise, they keep them alone, they-"

"Enough, Jones."

"-they were raising you, Arthur! Ever since you were a kid, they were raising you into something that they could control and use, and in the end they were going to kill you!"

"I know."

"Huh?" Jones stared at Arthur in stunned silence, his jaw dropping open. "They... What?"

"I'm not stupid, Jones." Arthur looked away. "I've known for a long time that the fae would be the ones to kill me. And I don't care."

Jones opened and closed his mouth, trying to find the right words. "Th-then you are stupid! You know, but you still-"

"When a child is gifted with abilities surpassing those of his peers, what happens to that child?" Arthur asked, and Jones narrowed his eyes.

"Everyone always thought I was cool," he said, and Arthur shook his head.

Jones wasn't sure what to make of Arthur's attitude, and instead turned his attention to their present location.

"Well, uh, this is where the professor told me to go," Jones told Arthur. "We've been working in here, on some things. We made this thing, you know. Like a potion or something. It gets rid of the fairies when it touches them, and-"

"No," Arthur said loudly, and Jones looked at him in confusion.

"What?"

"No. You're not doing that." Arthur had found his breath, and he stood, watching Jones warily. "Leave them alone, Jones. I'll bring them back to my house, and they'll leave the town in peace."

"It doesn't work like that, Ar-"

"Jones, how long have you been paying attention to all of this? A month? And your professor, what about him? He's been reading history books and studying mythology? I've lived with them my entire life, I think I know how to handle them!"

Before Jones could say anything, Arthur was outside, slamming the door shut so hard that the windows shook. Arthur wasted no time in leaving, moving swiftly through the streets to avoid Jones's pursuit.

But it appeared Jones wasn't going to follow, or the faerie had moved in, now that Arthur was gone. Because there was no way that the faerie could have lost them. Not since he'd washed his hands in the mixture designed to attract them with a smell as sweet as the taste of their precious honey-water.

He tried not to feel remorseful about Jones's imminent demise. He liked the boy. He had grown fond of his foolishness, even if it was overwhelming at times. But anyone that threatened the fae was an enemy. And that wasn't something the fae had pressed.

He didn't want to lose them.

He had accepted that they would take his life when the reaper had told him those years ago. He hadn't cared. He was cursed, so at least someone would profit from it. The fae would live on.

And he would find his mother in the afterlife.

Arthur shivered as the cold found its way past his jacket, seeping into his skin and chilling his bones. He ducked into the trees around his property, cut through them, didn't bother following the winding path. He could already feel the presence of the fae at the house, the presence that had begun to fade in their long absence. But it was renewed, and he knew that when he returned, they would be there waiting for him.

The thought made him smile. He moved faster, tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his chest. He had to see them, _all of them,_ together once more, waiting for his return.

Arthur shoved open the door, and relief washed over him. They were gathered around the bowl of honey-water that had been left beside the lure, drinking and playing, and when they looked back at him, their expressions turned to the love he was used to, the love of a predator sizing up its prey.

It was a terrible love. He should have hated it, but he had been deprived as a child. He had been so utterly alone, cast aside by other children, his own _siblings_, and only his mother had given him the time of day. They had hated him, feared his power, the ability he had to move things without touching them, to change things.

And they had then appeared before him, _marked him_, but he hadn't cared.

He had never cared.

"Welcome back," Arthur whispered, and the fae smiled, and drank the treat he had left him. "Do you want sugar in that?" he asked them, and one flew to his cheek, kissed his temple.

And then the air was filled with flames.

Arthur could only watch in horror as the fae screamed, gut-wrenching sounds that hurt his ears. They were all burning, trying to put themselves out, dunking themselves in the treat. He tried to reach out, but his hands went through them. He couldn't touch them. He couldn't even feel the heat of the fire, couldn't smell anything.

_"Arthur! Arthur!"_ They screamed for him, wailed in their beautiful voices, like bells, but he could do nothing but watch as they burned, and finally, they were gone.

The presence of the fae was gone. The bond the fae had had, not just a sisterly bond, but like a single entity, had led to their destruction.

Arthur stumbled back and hit the wall, his bottom lip trembling. He didn't feel the pain as he slid to the floor, staring at the air where the fae had been. He let out a choked sob, then a long wail, like the final cry of a dying animal.

Then he was silent.


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur didn't feel the passing of time. He stared into space, seeing nothing, feeling nothing but despair.

He was alone.

The fae that had lived with him for those many years were gone. He felt so cold.

"This is the best path. For everyone."

A hoarse voice. One he hadn't heard since England. One that spoke in riddles.

"You knew they would kill you. I told you back then."

Arthur let his eyes close.

"Kill me," he whispered.

"I won't do that."

"You took my mother." Arthur's voice trembled, and his body shook. "At least let me have her. Let me have one thing. Send me to her."

"Arthur-"

"There's nothing here for me."

The reaper had fallen silent, and Arthur felt so low, as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him. It was suffocating. If he couldn't be with the fae, then he should return to his mother, the one thing in his life that had been right those many years ago.

"These emotions you feel are fake," the reaper said, its empty voice sounding almost concerned, "put in you by the fae. In time, they will fade."

"If these emotions are fake, then what have I felt for the last twenty years?" Arthur was done. The reaper had no answers for him. The reaper had nothing he wanted, nothing he would benefit from.

Arthur let himself go, letting the pain and agony finally catch up with him. He curled up, ignoring the protesting pain in his chest, and waited for the numbness to take over completely.

It was warm.

Arthur imagined that he was dead, _wished for it_. It would mean that his troubles were worth something. He could find his mother, they could finally be together. He would have the love he had wanted for so long, no pretenses, he would be so happy.

There were steps around him. He imagined that they were for him, taking him where he belonged, and he opened his eyes.

Jones paced at the end of the bed he was in.

Arthur didn't even bother to look around at the unfamiliar place. He shut his eyes, but the damage was done.

"Hey, Arthur? Damn it- Professor!" A door opened and closed, and Arthur was alone in the room.

In no time at all, the door was opened once more, and this time there were two pairs of footsteps.

"Awake?"

Arthur recognized the voice, but he didn't bother trying to put a name or a face to it. He just tried to fall back into unconsciousness.

"You've gotta wake up sometime," the man continued, his voice sounding even closer. "You can't keep hiding in here."

"C'mon, Arthur," Jones said. "You're safe now. We-" Jones cut off, and the other man continued.

"I won't hide anything from ya," the man said. "You've been living in a lie for the last twenty-odd years. I've seen the characters coming in and out of this house since Alfred and I brought you here, and it's not right. You've had reapers in here twenty-four-seven, friggin' ghosts keep comin' in and scarin' the shit outta the kid... I'll be blunt. It's not right. You've been living with death for too long."

Arthur remained motionless.

"Your ribs are gettin' better, after your little walk back home," the man said. "You realize how much this's costin' me? You're a good guy, but damn. I had to have a private surgeon stop the bleeding so that we could get you here an' outta the hospital."

So it had been a few weeks at least.

The man had continued, and Arthur finally opened his eyes. Jones looked excited, _relieved_, but he didn't care.

"How much will it take for you to leave me alone?" Arthur asked, his voice low and tired. "One million? Two?"

That silenced the man immediately. The bar tender.

"I can pay in Euros," Arthur continued. "That'll just about double what you get American."

The tender smiled softly, almost bitterly. "You can't keep running away, Arthur," he said, but Arthur's attention was no longer on him. Arthur pointedly ignored Jones, instead looking towards the reaper.

"You're not a lot of help, are you?" Arthur said. His voice held no malice. He was just tired, weak, and he felt as though he had been used and cast aside. "Why don't you say something? Or did the talkative one leave?"

The tender suddenly reached over and grabbed Arthur's chin, forcing him to look back at him. "You can't keep talking to them," the tender told him. "It's unnatural. Humans do _not_ interact with death."

"You may have taken the fae, but you're not taking them as well." Arthur turned his head away once more. "They're the only ones that can offer anything I want right now."

The tender sighed and looked up at Jones. Arthur could hear the sighs and resignations behind his back, and he reached out lazily for the reaper. If there was one thing he could count on in this cursed life, it was death. Death could be brutal, slow, fleeting, but it was always there. Everyone met death in their life, and he only hoped that his final hour would be soon.

The door closed, and only one person was left in the room with him. Jones walked slowly around the bed and took Arthur's outstretched arm, sitting between him and the reaper. He looked uncomfortable before the reaper, but Arthur didn't care. If Jones was scared of death, then he shouldn't be getting in between it and Arthur.

"You can't die, Arthur," Jones told him. Arthur watched him blankly. "I mean... Y'know, you just can't die. I know the fae are gone, but they were going to kill you. And one attacked, and I had to protect myself, so I hit it, but then they were all gone, and the Professor said that they were a single ending thing-"

"Entity," Arthur supplied, his voice and expression void of any and all expression.

"Yeah." Jones lowered his head. "Just... Stay, Arthur. Don't leave."

Arthur turned his head away, and the grip that Jones had on his hand tightened.

Nothing passed between the two for a long time. Arthur heard the reaper get up and leave during the silence, and he could see the light from the window slowly fading. Arthur distanced himself from the situation, detached himself, drowned his emotions. He stared at the wall without seeing. He swallowed, and Jones held his arm tighter.

"When you were young," Arthur whispered, "those children didn't think you were cool, Jones. They were using you. They just wanted you to win whatever game they were playing, so that they could reap the benefits."

Arthur wasn't sure if the noise he heard was a sniff or not. He shut his eyes once more, and began to wish for death.


	18. Chapter 18

Death apparently wasn't ready to welcome him into its outstretched arms.

Arthur stared out the window, watching as the snow fell. People skirted around parked cars on the sides of the main road, as though scurrying away from the clouds that were looming overhead. They were scared, he was sure. They were all remembering the sudden blizzard the month before, that had shut down their town and pressed the pause button on their lives.

"Arthur!"

Arthur tried to ignore Jones's shouts. The boy had been bothering him daily, bringing food and books to try to placate him. Had tried to pull him into conversation.

But what was there to talk about? He was stuck in this hell hole (that was apparently Jones's house, a tiny two-room apartment above the bar), kept on medication for the pain that remained, unable to leave. He felt like a prisoner, and in essence he was.

The tender (the _professor_), was being impossible, insisting on invading his house in the woods, "cleansing" the rooms and removing anything that still had the presence of the fae. He had claimed it was to make sure they wouldn't return. Arthur was convinced that they just wanted to turn his life upside down, and ruin it even more than they already had.

Jones had tried to explain himself, what he had done.

_"It was something we put together, to protect you!"_ Jones had said. _"It erased them! Arthur, they were unnatural, and you were going to die. And the Professor said that if you killed one, then they all died, because they exist as one, and they-"_

Arthur had tuned him out. He hadn't wanted to know the details of his friends' deaths. He hadn't wanted to know how much pain they had been in.

"You're not in your room."

Jones stood in the doorway behind him, and Arthur shifted slightly to look at him. He held a small box in his hands, and he looked depressed. Jones had probably never been ignored for so long before. Arthur hadn't spoken a word to him since that last statement to Jones, that rather pathetic attempt to somehow break him and ruin his delusions. But Jones didn't care. He never cared. He had just kept coming back with treats and bribes, one-sided conversations and expressions that varied from pained to enthusiastic.

"Found some stuff at your house," Jones said, and he placed the box on the windowsill. Arthur let his eyes flit over it, refusing to touch it. Jones didn't comment on his actions, instead looking out the window and watching the streets with him.

"My brother's coming," Jones told him. Arthur didn't make a sound. "Holidays are coming up, y'know? He's uh, he's on vacation. He's coming to come visit, and he's going to stay a bit." Jones cleared his throat and took a step back. "So, we're having dinner on Thursday. Thought you might, uh..." Jones couldn't seem to figure out what he wanted to say, and he left the room.

Arthur kept watching out the window, watching the snow fall but not really seeing anything. After a few minutes he finally placed his hand on the box that Jones had brought in, and he slid it along the windowsill to bring it closer. Then he slipped it open and sighed.

Tea leaves.

It was Tuesday when Arthur met Jones's brother. Of course, he didn't realize it at the time.

The blond had watched him for a long time, obviously confused, and Arthur had simply assumed that Jones was surprised that the Brit had decided to commandeer his kitchen to make a cup of tea.

"You, uh..." The blond frowned and stared. "You're Arthur?"

Arthur looked back slowly, stirring the milk in his cup and trying to figure out what the hell Jones was on. Then he realized that the man had slightly longer hair, and _wasn't_ trying to pull him into a conversation. That, and his voice was a good deal softer, and more reserved than Jones's.

Arthur returned to his tea and set the spoon in the sink, taking the cup and removing himself from the kitchen. He walked down the short hall and into the tiny room that Jones had turned into a storage room, sitting down on the chest that was set by the window that he frequented. He found no real enjoyment in watching the streets below, seated among boxes and totes of Jones's packed-away property, but it wasn't as though he could do anything else. If he went near the door, then Jones was right there to talk to him, harass him. And he couldn't go downstairs; the bar was down there, with the damn Dane that was always ready to serve him and send him back (and he had found out exactly _how_ Jones had kept getting inside the bar despite being obviously underage, though it didn't matter anymore).

He wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep without being woken by prying strangers, wanted to drink tea out of his own china instead of drinking out of the over-sized mugs that Jones seemed to love. Arthur sipped the hot drink and listened. Jones had obviously found his brother, and he could hear them talking down the hall.

"Al, what is he doing here?" the brother was saying, and Arthur shifted slightly to aim his ear at the door, curious about what the new arrival had to say. "He's... Well..."

"Told you on the phone, he needs a place to stay for a while. His house's in bad shape, and..." Jones's voice faded, and Arthur recognized the sound of hesitation in his voice.

"He looks... Al, he shouldn't be here."

"Matt, he's a friend, alright? I mean, he helped me back in September. Remember? I told you about the guy in the-"

"The haunted house, right." The brother groaned. "Al, I just don't think you should be letting him stay here."

"I'm returning-"

"Does he want you to return the favor?"

There was silence in the other room, and Arthur took another sip of his tea, waiting for the conversation to continue.

"There's no reason... Here! C'mon, I'll introduce you!"

Arthur sighed and shifted back, looking out the window while Jones took dragged his unwilling brother down the hall and into the storage room. Jones looked a little too enthusiastic (most likely because he was scrambling for a reason to avoid talking with his twin), and then he thrust his brother into the room.

"Arthur, this's Mattie! He's the brother I told you about! Remember, I said he was in college? He's gonna be some kind of doctor-"

"Pharmacist," the brother muttered.

"-an' he's gonna help people!"

Arthur stared at Matthew silently. The two brothers looked a great deal alike, but there were minute differences. Matthew's hair was longer, and his skin was slightly paler as well. Even his eyes seemed to be a different shade of blue, slightly darker.

"Hey." Matthew offered his hand, but Arthur turned back to the window. The brother lowered his hand awkwardly and turned to look despairingly at his brother, but Jones didn't seem that bothered. Arthur watched them through the reflection in the window.

"So, you can stay in-"

"I have a hotel room," Matthew was quick to cut in before his brother could get started. "You don't have to worry about it."

"I have space, it's not a problem," Jones protested.

"I have a friend with me."

"Oh." Jones frowned, then his expression seemed to lighten. "Is it that chick with the-"

"No!" Matthew said, shaking his head. "No, just... no." He grabbed Jones's arm and began to pull him from the room. "We need to talk."

Arthur looked down quickly, turning his eyes away from the reflection in case Jones looked over and saw him watching. He focused on some woman that was pulling a child by the hand, and listened intently as Matthew pulled Jones back down the hall.

"There's something about my friend," Matthew's low voice muttered, and Jones's voice was suddenly soft, they same tone he always used with Arthur. One of concern.

"Something wrong? Are there-"

"It's a guy."

There was a long silence, and a few footfalls. Someone was pacing.

"So?"

"I mean... Damn it." Matthew sounded almost disgusted. "This is... Damn."

"Is he doing-"

"He's not bad, Al!" Matthew groaned. "We're sleeping..." His voice faded into a mumble, and Arthur could almost hear the wheels turning in Jones's head.

"Sle-oh. Oh." Jones laughed nervously. "Yeah. Yeah. I uh, I got it. So... He's coming to Thanksgiving?"

The pacing stopped.

"Why else would he be here?"

"Right, right. Gotcha, gotcha..." There was a long pause. "Let's go outside?"

The door opened and closed, and Arthur looked out the window again. It was only a few minutes before Jones and Matthew were out front, and Jones looked down the street. His face twisted in confusion, and when Arthur followed his gaze, he saw the tender with a box under his arm. The tender waved and motioned towards the apartment, then the floor shook as the tender slammed the door to the bar.

Arthur finished his tea and stood, taking the cup with him to the kitchen. He slipped on his shoes and dropped the mug into the sink. Then he opened the door and left the tiny apartment.

The staircase to the bar downstairs was apparently soundproofed. While the floor would sometimes vibrate and shake from the crashing of doors and bodies, Arthur had never heard a peep of the usual occupants. It was rather surprising that such noise could be contained.

The staircase was also very... plain. There was a short stretch of hallway from Jones's front door, then it was a straight set of stairs to the bottom floor. The only light was a bulb that hung from above, with an old pull switch. There wasn't even a window, so it was always dark.

Arthur turned the knob and pushed open the old door at the bottom of the staircase, then shut it behind him. He was in a small room that was around the back of the bar, out of sight of the patrons, and he walked out and sat down in the spot he had usually occupied before his life had gone straight to hell.

"So you _were_ watchin'," the tender said, and he lifted the box that he had returned to the bar with, and he dropped it on the counter. "Thought you might need these. 'm still working on cleaning the house."

Arthur pursed his lips and opened the top of the box.

His laptop. Clothes. A jacket. Shoes.

"I take it you're still not talking to Alfred."

Arthur narrowed his eyes and the tender sighed, then reached under the counter for a glass.

"The usual?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer as he filled the glass with alcohol. He pushed it on the counter, shrugging. "Listen, sorry it's taking so long, but-"

"You have no fucking idea what you're doing," Arthur finished for him, his voice slightly hoarse. He didn't touch the drink. "I know all about it. You should just have your fucking friend do the job for you instead of having him instruct you on the phone like a child." Arthur took the box and moved back behind the counter, opening the door and going back up the stairs. He knew the tender wouldn't listen (he was too full of himself), but it felt good telling someone to fuck off.


	19. Chapter 19

"Sorry about that. Mattie was just-looks like we're going to have someone else over for Thanksgiving."

Arthur didn't look up from his laptop. He had crawled into bed as soon as he had returned to the apartment, the box shoved in the closet to the right of the bed. The room was small, and there wasn't much room to walk around because of the queen-sized bed that some genius had deemed appropriate for the room. Arthur wasn't sure how both the tender and Jones had managed to fit in the room at the same time while he was bedridden, or how Jones had managed the fit the chair inside.

Arthur ignored Jones's babbling as he typed on his laptop, his eyes downcast. He sat upright in the bed, his legs bent so that he could rest his laptop on them instead of letting it sit on the bed where it would overheat.

"So, what're you doin'?" Jones asked, and Arthur was forced to listen. Jones dropped down on the bed to his right, leaning over and staring at the screen. Arthur turned, prepared to either hit him or kill him, and he saw that the American's eyes had widened, and his mouth hung open. "Jesu- is that your bank account?"

Arthur shut the laptop, gritting his teeth and turning to glare. Jones didn't appear at all perturbed by the expression of contempt that Arthur aimed at him. He instead stared at the Brit before him. "You were serious when you were going to pay off the prof!"

Arthur unplugged the laptop and left the end of the cord on the bed, sliding off the mattress slowly. Jones watched him leave without moving, and Arthur made his way to the storage room across the hall.

Arthur sat down on the chest by the window and looked outside with a scowl. The snow had stopped, and more people were out wandering the streets, obviously feeling better since it appeared that life wouldn't end. He was intent on checking the stocks, selling at least half of his and moving to another company (a new company) that looked like it would be doing better in the near future. If he could just buy before everyone else realized...

Arthur sighed and turned slightly, leaning his right arm against the window frame and letting his temple rest against the cool glass. He really didn't want to do anything. He had been feeling so sluggish the last few days, and even getting out of bed had become a chore. He blamed it on his location, blamed Jones for his misfortunes. It was easier that way. If he were home, he wouldn't be suffering like this.

Arthur didn't end up doing anything that day. He just sat there, watching the streets in silence. The cars that passed one another, the mothers that were walking down the street with a child in one arm and bags of groceries in the other, the familiar bar patrons. He never noticed the times that Jones stood there, leaning in the doorway and watching him, then leaving only to return later. He never heard the sounds around him. It was as though the volume had been turned off, and he was left watching a movie, one that simply repeated the same scene over and over again. He couldn't hear Jones's pacing, or Matthew's second and third visits of the day. He never heard Matthew's concerns about the man that stared out the window and didn't move, didn't know that said man was _him._

Arthur glanced up when something touched his shoulder, and he found Jones looking down at him. It was dark outside, and he realized that the few lights in the room were those from the street, the ugly yellow fluorescent lights that were supposed to guide travelers at night. His laptop had died long before, and Jones smiled at him, a hesitant smile that didn't match the worry in his eyes.

"There're burgers in the kitchen," Jones told him. "Mattie left some ice cream. He said you might like it."

Arthur followed Jones to the kitchen slowly, taking a seat at the small table. He wondered faintly how Jones expected to fit four people in the tiny kitchen for a feast. There was barely any counter space, the table was roughly the size of two card tables, and even the oven was small (and he was quite sure that there was no way in hell he would fit a turkey in the damn thing). Arthur stared at the clock by the refrigerator, wondering how he had lost the last six hours, but then Jones placed a plate on the table in front of him.

Arthur looked distastefully at the chunk of cooked meat before raising it to his mouth (under Jones's careful scrutiny). Once Jones was satisfied that Arthur was going to finish the meal, he began to talk.

"So, I have a battle plan for tomorrow," Jones started, and Arthur stared at him blankly. "See, Mattie's gettin' his... boyfriend, to cook dessert for Thursday. So we have to get it together tomorrow and make all kinds of side dishes for the turkey , cause we're not gonna get beaten by some old guy!"

Arthur stared at Jones blankly, chewing his burger and swallowing. Jones looked proud of his inane plan, and Arthur wondered if there was a way to dissuade him from a plan that was likely to end painfully. He took another bite from his burger, and then realized that there was something on his forehead. He jerked back and stared at Jones's hand, which had been resting against his forehead.

"You look sick," Jones decided. Arthur blinked, and Jones stood, grabbing the empty plates from the table and shoving them in the sink. "We can finish tomorrow, right? You should go t' sleep."

Arthur nodded and wiped his hands on the napkin that Jones dropped before him. He looked back to the clock. It wasn't even seven. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself up from the table and retired to his room.

Arthur was woken by someone shaking his shoulder. He tried to bat away the offender with a hand, but instead his wrist was grabbed and he was turned over.

"You okay, Arthur?" Jones was touching his forehead again, and Arthur kicked up with a leg. He felt it connect with something, and then Jones was on the floor.

"God damn it, d'you always have to do that? Every single time I wake you up, d'you always have to kick me?"

Arthur sat up slowly and looked over to see Jones with his hands covering his groin, thumping his foot against the floor repeatedly as though it would distract him from the pain. While Jones was distracted, Arthur glanced over at the clock by the window. Two o'clock.

_Two o'clock._

He had slept for nineteen hours.

"I was gonna ask you to make th' rolls," Jones grunted, and Arthur looked back at him. Then he shook his head. "Oh, c'mon! All you have to do is shove the pan in the oven!" Arthur shook his head again. Jones looked unimpressed. "Can you... Can you do anything? I mean, I gotta make rolls an' the turkey, and veggies..." Arthur crawled out of bed slowly and began to dig through the closet, grabbing clothes and underwear. Jones had finally picked himself up off the floor, and he frowned as Arthur escaped to the bathroom and shower.

A task that usually took minutes seemed to take days. Arthur washed slowly, feeling weak and tired. His usual wit seemed to have left him, and he no longer had to force himself not to talk to Jones; he didn't feel as though he could even force himself to talk at all.

Despite only being awake for six hours on Wednesday, the day had seemed to last forever. He had only cut the carrots and mixed some of the dough, and then Jones had told him to go take a nap. He had instead gone to the bathroom and stared at himself in the tiny mirror, pulling at his cheeks. There were dark half-circles under his eyes, and he could see that the emerald irises he had once been proud of had faded to a dull green. He sighed and leaned forward slightly, leaning his weight on the ceramic sink and pressing his forehead against the mirror. It was cold. Arthur swallowed. It felt like his life was passing him by. What had he done in an entire day? Slept and cut vegetables. That was it. It was as if he was standing still, and all around him time continued.

He had returned to bed at eight and woke twenty hours later. Jones was the one to wake him again, but Arthur hadn't even made a move to bat him off.

"Mattie's gonna be here in a couple hours," Jones told him when he finally shook him awake. "You should get ready."

Jones touched his forehead briefly before leaving the room, and Arthur looked up at the clock without moving. The hour hand seemed to challenge him, and he contemplated hiding back under the covers.

"Hurry up!" Jones called from the other room, and Arthur slowly rose from his bed and dug through the box in the closet for clothes. "An' don't spend an hour in the shower like yesterday!"

Arthur gathered his clothes and walked down the hall, into the tiny bathroom. Jones had obviously been up into the night cleaning. The ceramic bath and sink were pearly white instead of the dull gray that the dirt and grime had turned them. Arthur undressed and climbed into the shower, turning on the water and letting it wash over him. It was hot.

Arthur stared at the wall, as if he were waiting for something to happen. After a while, he began to listen to the sounds outside. Jones was wandering around the house, cleaning everything he could find and closing the bedroom doors. There was a knock at the bathroom door.

"Art, it's been an hour," Jones said, and Arthur groaned. He turned the water off, wondering how it was that he was losing track of time. He dried slowly, then pulled on his clothes. He avoided the mirror, simply running his fingers through his hair and hoping it looked okay.

He left the bathroom, pulling on his socks as he walked, and Jones looked at him when he entered the kitchen.

It appeared that Matthew had already arrived with his boyfriend. Matthew looked up when Arthur entered the room, and his mouth dropped open. He looked confused, and then he quickly clamped his mouth shut and looked to his brother for answers.

"So, Arthur, this's Mattie's boyfriend, Francis," Alfred said, gesturing with his hands. The blond on the ugly brown couch nodded to the Brit and put down his coffee cup on the coffee table, smiling and extending a hand. Arthur simply nodded to him.

There was a tense moment of silence, and then Francis laughed. "Let me guess, he is from England?"

Arthur swallowed, and Jones stood up quickly. "Wanna help me get the food outta the fridge?" Jones didn't wait for an answer. He was already pulling Arthur out of the room and back into the kitchen, grumbling something under his breath.

"I know you're not a huge people person, but can you please, just... Mattie likes the guy, so be nice? Please? I know I probably owe you in your eyes, but seriously." Jones looked over at Arthur to find that the other man was already pulling food out of the oven and setting pots on the blue countertops.

"I'll help." Matthew had appeared in the kitchen behind them, taking pots from Arthur. "I've got it, Arthur. Go talk to Francis."

Arthur didn't protest. He left the kitchen for the living room, sitting down in an overstuffed chair and looking out the window. He pretended not to hear the conversation in the kitchen, but it was obvious that he was the center of their attention. He felt bad about it. He shouldn't be imposing on their family holiday.

"Al, what the hell happened?" Matthew's hiss was low, but Arthur could hear it all too clearly. "It's been two days, how did he get so bad?"

Jones didn't respond, and Arthur glanced over at Francis. The Frenchman was watching him intently, measuring him.

"You're dating Alfred?" Francis asked, and Arthur glared at him. "Ah. Matthew said you weren't, but... Well, two people living in such close quarters, raises some questions."

Arthur didn't see how that made any sense, but he figured that it wouldn't be a good idea to beat the living shit out of the boyfriend of his host's brother (though he doubted he would have found the energy to do anything).

"Come eat," one of the brothers called from the kitchen, and Arthur waited for Francis to leave before he followed.

The dinner was a simple one, and while it appeared that they had cooked far too much food, Jones was sure to make up for it. The man was a monster. As the dishes were passed around the tiny table, Jones served himself three times as much food as anyone else, laughing with the other two as Arthur sat at the end, feeling like an intruder. His fingers shook as the others ate, and he tried to eat the food that he put on his plate.

It was a chore, being there, among the laughter and joking. He swallowed, forcing down his food, and then it became too much.

Arthur scooted back his chair and left. He reached in the pockets of his coat that hung on the wall by the door, pulling out his cigarettes and a lighter, and then he left the tiny apartment, going down the stairs. His entire body trembled, his heart beating fiercely within his chest as though he were running from a predator. He pushed open the door behind the bar to find it empty, closed for the holiday. He found his usual seat by the wall and sat down, pulling a cigarette from the pack and lighting it. He placed it between his lips, almost dropping it on the floor, and then he tried to regain some of his self-control. He held his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the counter and shutting his eyes.

Arthur tried to ignore the phone on the other side of the counter when it started to ring. He finished his first cigarette, lit his second with the end of the first and continued, trying desperately to calm his fried nerves.

The answering machine attached to the phone started, and he looked up quickly.

"Mr. Kirkland, I know you're there," a calm voice said. "Pick up the phone. We need to talk."

Arthur didn't hesitate. He reached across the counter and grabbed the phone, pulling it back and unsticking the cord when it became tangled around some silverware.

"Mr. Kirkland," the man on the other end said, but Arthur was already speaking.

"You must be the man behind the professor," Arthur said quickly, almost dropping his cigarette. "Just... start talking."


	20. Chapter 20

Denmark = Mathias; Norway = Eirik

* * *

"My name is Eirik," the man told him. "I'm Mathias's friend-"

"Mathias?"

"The bartender."

"Right, right." Arthur chewed on the filter of the cigarette, drumming his fingers on the dark wood counter and staring at the taps on the wall behind the bar. He never heard the creak of the stairs, instead focusing on the phone in his hand. "Just keep talking. Just do that." Arthur tried to swallow a lump that had risen in his throat. He needed a distraction from the overwhelming grief, something that would make his trouble seem reasonable.

"The feelings that you felt with the fae were artificial," Eirik told him, his voice steady.

"The reaper told me that."

There was a short pause, a throat clearing, and then Eirik continued. "The fae manipulate emotions to get their target to listen to them. They've done it throughout history, making the target love them and believe in them. The manipulation of those emotions is like rearranging the pieces of a puzzle. Those pieces may fit in multiple spots, but eventually you take the pieces out and put it where it belongs, right?"

"I hate riddles," Arthur grumbled.

Eirik sighed and fell silent. After a tense moment, he continued. "They manipulated your emotions, but now they're gone. Your emotions are going back to normal, the way they should be. You're... coming down from the high, you could say. The fae have been gone, and now your mind is making sense of the jumbled emotions and putting them back where they belong."

"That explains the mental-fucking-breakdown," Arthur chuckled. He dropped his cigarette on the counter and quickly picked it up, blowing ash everywhere.

"Are you smoking? You should quit."

"I'm not about to die from smoking," Arthur muttered.

"And how do you know that?"

"A reaper told me."

"Right." Eirik coughed, and Arthur waited anxiously. "I imagine you haven't really been in touch with things other than reapers and the fae."

"And ghosts."

"Right. Ghosts. I know the fae don't take kindly to sharing what they believe to be theirs." Eirik sounded thoughtful, and Arthur could almost imagine a man on the other end of the line, scratching his chin thoughtfully as he tried to think of something to say. "That probably means you don't know about the network."

"Correct."

"Well, in all of history, fae, ghosts, demons, anything you can imagine has existed, more often than not changing the fates of others. You can understand that, right?"

Arthur nodded his head, not answering.

"I take that as a yes. Well, some of those creatures can communicate with select humans. The fae, some reapers, ghosts, even trolls can communicate. And they have their own network, like a telephone system. They can relay information to one another quickly, no matter where they are on the planet."

"Telepathy?" Arthur guessed. He lit his third cigarette.

"With some species. Others simply talk to each other."

"Like... Go next door and-"

"The number of things that have died on the planet could cover its surface a few times over," Eirik interrupted. "There are an infinite number of souls on the planet. And if they wanted to get a message somewhere, why not simply line up and pass the message on?"

"Like a kid's game? And the message doesn't get muddled up after passing through a couple million spirits' mouths?" Arthur stared down at the counter before him, pushing the ash around with his finger. He hadn't found an ashtray behind the counter, but he figured Mathias probably wouldn't object if Arthur paid for a new counter if he burned it.

"Spirits don't make the same mistakes that humans do." Eirik chuckled, and Arthur took a deep breath. "This network is the reason that I found out about you."

"Sure it wasn't Mathias?"

"I did make him help you, but I knew about you long before this." Eirik's voice seemed to drift, as though he were beginning to fall asleep. "It must have been fifteen years ago, when I first heard about the fae. I had been reading a lot of cryptozoology books at the time, when the word fae caught my attention. You see, someone had added it in. Of course, I had to look them up. I went to libraries, bookstores, ancient sites... I went everywhere. Found out all I could about them. About their old masters, their victims, their habits... Then the trolls were telling me about the reapers, and how the reapers were angry because of some fae that had started games in Europe. I tried to look them up and find them, but they were a bit smarter than me. It took me years to find your name, but it was too late by then. The only thing I knew about you was that you had put someone into the hospital and run away to America."

"Let me guess: you lost track of me, then Mathias recognized me and sent you my picture."

"Mathias doesn't care about those things. He's an airheaded idiot."

Arthur blinked, looking down at the phone cradle.

"It's true, you know. He's like a child. Can't trust him to breath on his own."

Arthur shrugged to himself, and he looked down at his hands. The trembling had almost stopped, and he lowered his head to let it rest on the counter, using his arm to pillow his head.

"I actually found you online. Rather, I was contacted online about you. Someone suggested my name to Jones, so he sent me an e-mail. He said he was concerned about the health of someone that believed in faeries. Of course I assumed it was you."

"And your assumption proved correct. You didn't even have to see me."

"But I had to make sure it was you." Eirik sounded almost smug. "I sent the warnings to your family. I wanted to see what the reaction would be."

"And you saw that they had a meltdown."

"I doubt it was anything more than guilt."

Arthur shut his eyes and let his chin touch the countertop. He blew air out of his lips to scatter the ash, then concentrated on the cool wood.

"But when Mathias saw you watching the news report and dialing, I had my answer and knew it was really you."

"Ingenius."

"Thank you. And I hope I'll be able to impress you by telling you what you want to know."

"And what do I want to know?" Arthur asked blankly.

"Jones won't be able to see reapers again. No one in that town will. Not with the fae gone."

"What d'you mean?"

"The fae fed off of your energy. They're not very clean when they do things like that, so there was a lot of energy just _floating around._ Of course that energy would attach itself to things, both people and reapers. When it hit people, they could see reapers. When it hit reapers, everyone could see them. The people that were with you for long periods of time could see more creatures."

"The fae-"

"The fae were seen when they wanted to be. They probably took off the mask to make the hunt more fun or something. I imagine that's the only way Jones managed to kill it. And if you kill one of them, the rest fall like dominoes. Single entity means one death is the death of all."

Arthur wanted to sleep. He was so tired, so exhausted. Eirik's stories seemed so farfetched, but he couldn't imagine a way for them to not be true. He let his body go limp and let Eirik's words wash over him. There was so much to take in, so much to learn, and understand.

"Eirik," Arthur murmured, and the other fell silent. "I want to go home."

There was a long silence, but it was a thoughtful silence. There was no feeling of discomfort or inease that had seemed so common in the other conversations, but a feeling of mutual understanding.

"I don't agree with it," Eirik finally said. "I don't know what you can find in that house that make you happy. I don't think it's healthy for you to be there.

"But Mathias is done cleaning. I can't help him find anything else that should be removed or cleansed."

"So I can go home," Arthur mumbled. He yawned.

"If you take Jones with you."

"But I don't-"

"You're depressed, Arthur. Look at yourself in the mirror. No one in their right mind would trust you to be in a house on your own. Take Jones with you if you want to go back home."

"He's scared o' ghosts."

"Barricade his room. He'll adjust."

Arthur chuckled. "You're a good guy."

"Of course I am."

"Lot better'n Mathias."

"Yeah."

The two fell silent once more, neither wishing to interrupt the peace that seemed to hang in the air.

"Go to sleep, Arthur," Eirik finally told him. "Things will get better."

"Right," Arthur muttered, and he reached forward, not bothering to lift his head as he searched blindly for the phone cradle. He finally hung the phone up and let his eyes pass over the clock. Almost three hours had passed in the blink of an eye, and the hour hand was creeping closer to the ten, just passing nine-thirty. Arthur shut his eyes and let himself relax, falling asleep almost immediately.

He was asleep before the door behind the bar opened, and Jones circled around to carefully lift him, steadying him on his back and returning to the stairs, walking up to the apartment.

"You were gone for a long time," Matthew muttered when his brother walked back into the apartment. He stared at the man on his brother's back, his brows knit together with worry.

"He was on the phone."

"And you listened in?" Francis asked with a smirk.

"He can talk?" Matthew looked shocked.

"When it's not to me," Jones told him. "I'll be back in a bit and we can have desert. I'm just gonna drop him in bed."

Jones disappeared into the hall past the kitchen, and Francis hummed.

"Your brother is a fool," Francis observed.

Matthew just frowned and nodded. He clenched his hands under the table, and in a few minutes his brother returned, tossing a packet of cigarettes on the kitchen counter and sitting back down at the table. Francis watched him for a minute before cutting into one of the pies, humming as he did.

"What was so important that he spent three hours on the phone about?"

Matthew looked shocked that Francis had asked that, but Jones shrugged.

"Hell if I know," he muttered. "He's got more things wrong than... Well, I mean, he sees ghosts an' shit! And his friend things almost got me killed, an' they almost killed him, an' this sounds so stupid." Jones balanced his chair back on two legs, staring at the pies as Francis cut into them. "Guess he's movin' back to his house."

"Should he?" Matthew looked towards his brother warily, not touching the piece of pie that Francis had set before him. "Al, look what happened to him in two days! Two more days and he'll probably be dead or-"

"Course I'd go with 'im," Jones mumbled. "I'm not careless enough to let him off that easily. Just wish he'd stay here. It's easier to watch him."

"I thought he was rich," Francis cut in as he placed a plate piled with chocolate and pumpkin pie slices before Jones. Jones was quick to cover it in whipped cream. "His house should be more than comfortable!"

"That has nothin' to do with it," Jones muttered, and Francis waited expectantly. "It's haunted."

Matthew sighed. "God damn it, Al."


	21. Chapter 21

Arthur hadn't wasted any time the following day. He woke around noon and showered, then gathered his things in a rush. Jones had insisted on helping him, and then the American had appeared with his own bag, claiming that Mathias had called him and told him that he had to stick to Arthur like glue.

Arthur was tempted to act like a child and throw a fit, but he remained silent. He was going home. He could stick Jones in the room that neighbored his own and leave him there, not worry about him (though he would probably have to do something about the spectre that lived in the room; he'd rather not wake in the middle of the night to Jones's screams).

Arthur had found his mood lifting, and when he walked down the stairs and out the front door, he was apprehensive and excited, his heart pounding excitedly in his chest.

Then Jones ruined it.

"Mattie said he'd give us a ride," Jones laughed, grabbing Arthur's shoulder and steering him towards a green truck parked by the bar that Arthur had practically run from.

Arthur glared at the vehicle, already knowing that he was going to be crammed in the backseat with Jones. And then his things would be thrown in the back of the damn truck and left to the elements. He didn't even know how well Matthew could drive, and he wasn't eager to be within three feet of a Frenchman.

However, Jones was already pushing him inside, barely giving him enough time to at least liberate his laptop from the box that had been hastily shoved into the back. Jones climbed in behind him eagerly, and Arthur squished himself into the corner, pressing his back against the window and trying to get as far away from Jones as possible.

"You'll wanna head outside o' town, and then there's a long stretch o' forest," Jones was already starting in, leaning forward on the back of the passenger's seat and watching out the front window. Arthur dared a glance at Francis. The man looked amused, but there was something behind it. Concern, or something like that. Arthur didn't really care. He looked away from the people within the truck and looked outside.

Cars and street signs passed quickly, lines of color that crossed his line of sight before disappearing behind him. He watched boredly, though inside he was willing the truck to go faster. He didn't pay any attention to the conversations going on around him, didn't notice how Jones would look over and watch him, or how Matthew would check him in the rear-view mirror with curious eyes.

"See over there? That dirt road? Take that."

Matthew hesitated before turning the truck to the right, onto a dirt road that was hidden in between large trees and brush. The branches above tangled together like a canopy, and Francis looked towards the Brit in confusion. Arthur kept his eyes aimed outside the window, not seeing anything but the green of pine needles and the gray of bare trees. He also didn't see the, "I thought he was rich" that Francis mouthed at Jones.

"Stop right here!" Jones said loudly, and Arthur cast a glare at him. Matthew looked confused as he slowed the truck and stopped it.

"Al... There's nothing here."

"The path's over there," Jones said. He waited for Francis to open his door so that he could jump out and grab his blue duffel from the back, as well as the box that held Arthur's possessions. When Arthur moved to take the box from him, Jones pulled it away and gestured towards the forest rather forcefully, grinning at Arthur's scowl and shoving his laptop into the box with everything else. "Come on, you gotta see his house!"

Arthur was already stalking away, slipping through the trees and onto the familiar path to his home.

At least, it used to be familiar.

The path had overgrown during the month he had been gone, small trees appearing in the path. He bent them aside as he walked, his confusion evident on his face. His best guess was that the fae had used their powers to clear the path, and now that they were gone, the growth that was supposed to be there originally had returned (albeit in the late fall).

"Al, you've got to be kidding."

Arthur ignored Matthew's hiss as he pushed through, already deciding that he needed to come out later and start cutting branches and small trees. Jones followed closely, trying to keep up with the Brit, except that Arthur kept letting the trees snap back as he passed them. He rather enjoyed the noises that the American made when he was hit with the branches, the colorful curses coming from his mouth almost making Arthur smirk.

"How far are we going?" Matthew asked, trying to keep his voice low. Francis was following behind him and complaining about how rich men were supposed to have paved driveways and ornate paths, instead of a forest with no discernible trail.

"'Bout a mile in," Jones called back to his brother. When he looked forward again, he saw that Arthur had disappeared. "Wh- Arthur!" Jones sped his steps, but Alfred was already nearing the end of the trail a quarter of a mile ahead, stepping into the clearing and stopping to stare at the building before him.

That wasn't his house.

Arthur didn't dare go near the... the _place_ before him. It looked like his house, but the aura of time and apprehension was gone. It looked brighter, even under the dark clouds in the sky, and it was almost _inviting_, a place that even a lost traveler would delight to find help at.

The personality of his home had changed. The once meneacing broken window on the second floor simply looked _broken_. It was more a sign of age than danger.

Arthur didn't know how the house seemed so drastically different after only a month. He also didn't know if he liked the change. The white shutters seemed warm, instead of the emptiness he had always attributed to them. The brown siding was wood instead of grime and dust.

"There you are!" Jones finally shouted when he burst from the trees. "Thought you got lost or something!"

Arthur didn't even hear him. He slowly walked up the front steps, pushing open the thick door and stepping inside, into the kitchen where the fae had died those weeks before.

It was bright inside. The kitchen looked peaceful, serene, something that one would find in a magazine about kitchen and bath renovations. The window above the sink was clean, the counter tops were empty (the bowls that Arthur had set out for the fae back then were gone), and, when Arthur flicked a switch on the wall by the door, light flowed from the lamps on the walls and reflected off the surfaces of the counters and walls. The light bounced freely around the room instead of being dimmed by the darkness, and Arthur had to swallow a lump that had begun to form in his throat.

"This is more of what I expected," Francis said when he and Matthew finally reached the door and stepped inside. Jones had followed Arthur in before, unnoticed as the Brit took in his home. Arthur walked slowly along the counter, opening the wooden drawers and shutting them.

His crushed herbs were gone. All of his medicines were gone. Bowls and cups had gone missing, leaving incomplete sets that he knew he would be replacing in his obsessive need to have everything matching and complete. Even pieces of his silverware were gone, and his fine china. Everything that had once held the scent or presence of the fae was gone, and all he had left were incomplete and broken remnants of the life he had lived.

Arthur opened a cupboard above the counter next to the stove and found some relief in the tea leaves that hadn't been thrown away. He desperately wanted to make some of his tea, and find solace in a task that had been common and _his_ before, but he had to see what else had changed.

Arthur moved from the kitchen and into the adjoining living room. The large windows had been cleaned. The couch was gone. There was a bloodstain on the chair (he would have to get rid of it). The television was intact, and Arthur finally realized what major change he had felt.

When the fae had gone, and the house had been cleansed, eleven of the twelve ghosts had disappeared. He couldn't feel the presence of the ghost in the room neighboring his own, and in the back of his mind he finally felt a sense of relief, that he would be able to repair the window once and for all. He also realized that those eleven spirits had been trapped inside by the fae, once the fae had killed them.

He was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable and sick with everything he learned about them. He tried not to see how the clock had ended at 7:02, when the fae had died. Instead he turned and continued on, passing the staircase and letting his fingers trail along the smooth surface of his work desk.

Arthur was finally pulled from his reverie when there was a squak behind him, and he looked back to see Francis and Matthew looking at Jones with expressions of wonder and amusement, respectively. Arthur looked forward once more, and it became clear what had scared the man.

Jonathon sat in a wooden chair outside the library.

Jonathon's blood crusted brow was low over his dark eyes, and his pale frame (that Jones resembled at that moment) was hunched, as though the spectre was depressed. Arthur knew that the people behind him could see it, when he heard Matthew choke, and then heard the frantic sound of someone waving, pointing.

"Jonathon," Arthur called softly. The spectre didn't look up as Arthur approached and extended a hand, letting it rest on the spirit's shoulder. There was silence, a sort of understanding between the two, and then Arthur suddenly shoved open the door to the library, looking around frantically. "They burned it?" he whispered.

The great piano that had once filled the room was gone, and in its place was only a small crate with the music that had been in the seat of its stool. Arthur couldn't say anything. The number of books on the many shelves had dropped, and he wouldn't be surprised if only half of them remained. His guitar was untouched in the corner of the room, and he turned back to look towards the soul.

"I'll buy you another one," Arthur promised, then he let his eyes circle the room again, stunned by how empty it all looked. "I'll buy you another, no matter how much it costs. I swear, Jonathon."

"Is that blood?" a voice asked, and Arthur looked towards the guitar. Matthew stood in the doorway of the room, warily looking from the ghost on his left to Arthur.

"Yes," Arthur murmured, his voice taking on a reminiscent tone. "Yes, it is. I wonder what happened to that boy..."

"That boy?" Matthew pushed hesitantly.

"I tried to kill someone with it back in England," Arthur muttered, and he picked the guitar up carefully. He missed the look of alarm that Matthew gave his brother. "I wonder how he is..." Arthur stared at the guitar for a long time before finally sighing and returning it to the stand, moving back to the door. Matthew backed away quickly, but Arthur paid him no mind.

"Once I see what else the fiends had destroyed in the house, I'll find you a piano," Arthur promised. The ghost nodded and stood, walking into the empty library and slamming the door behind him. Arthur sighed and turned to the door by the staircase, looking inside at the bathroom. Nothing extravagant had changed, except for the floor-length mirror that had disappeared. He clicked the door shut and turned back, passing between Jones and Francis and ascending the staircase.

The upstairs was brighter as well, and Arthur wondered if there had been some change in the lighting. He didn't dare go to his room. He could only imagine what had changed in there, where he had slept and the fae had gathered around him. He instead walked to the room with the broken window, the room that had been occupied by ghosts since he had moved in.

The bed was gone. Everything else was intact, and even a lightbulb had been replaced. He had expected more to be gone, but the green bureau and the mahogany desk were still there. The closet door was open, showing bare shelves and wire hangers. The blue wallpaper looked like someone had scrubbed it down.

Feeling heartened by the discovery, Arthur moved back to his room. If the room haunted by the fae's victims had been pretty much intact, then-

Arthur stopped when he opened the door. He could only stare in amazement and confusion. His room had been _stripped_ completely. The bed was gone, the end table was gone, his clothes were gone, _the wallpaper had been torn from the walls and the floor had even been sanded._

He couldn't make a sound. The change in his room, far greater than anything else in the house, was the biggest shock. A cheap mattress and frame had been left inside, with bags of supposedly new clothing and sheets on the top. He suddenly found himself overwhelmed by fear and terror. His room. _His room_. His room had been stripped because of the mere presence the fae had left behind, _and he had slept with them, played with them._

He had never truly understood the fae until they were gone.

And the revelation terrified him.


	22. Chapter 22

"I'm not sleeping in there."

Arthur didn't turn away from the stove. Jones stood in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, a frown on his face and his arms crossed. Arthur stirred his tea, adding a bit of milk and tasting. _More milk_.

"That room's haunted."

"No it's not."

"It was when I was here before!" Jones exclaimed. Arthur pursed his lips and added some more milk, then he twisted on the cover and returned the jug to the refrigerator. "You talked about it!"

Matthew and Francis had left hours earlier, returning to their hotel and then, presumably, to school. Arthur couldn't help but think "Good riddance," while Jones had gone off on a tirade about people touching his brother. Then Jones had badgered him, asking questions that he refused to answer, and trying to to get him to say more than the short, curt sentences that Arthur was willing to give. Arthur may finally be home, but that didn't mean that he had to be nice to the man that was forcing his way into his life and home.

"That was then, this is now." Arthur sat at the end of the wooden table and sighed, then raised the teacup to his lips and began to drink.

Jones yanked back the chair at the other end of the table and dropped into it, staring across at Arthur. Arthur didn't say anything. He just sipped his tea and stared into space. Jones began to tap his fingers on the table impatiently.

"There's no bed."

"Put blankets on the floor. Tomorrow you can buy a cot."

"I don't have money for a freakin' cot!"

"Then I'll buy it."

"The window's broken. It's cold!"

"Put a piece of plastic over it."

"That doesn't actually do anything!" Jones was obviously getting agitated, and Arthur sighed. He wasn't in the mood to fight.

"Then put your blankets on the floor in my room. I don't care, just stop complaining." Arthur stood and deposited his cup in the sink as Jones watched him intently. "I'm going to sleep. Do what you want, just don't wake me."

Jones frowned and looked at his watch. "It's not even five."

"By the time I put the sheets on the bed, it will be."

Jones scrambled to his feet and followed Arthur out of the kitchen, staying close as the Brit made his way to the stairs. "Then let me help! I can move your bed where you wan' it, an' I-"

"Enough Jones." Arthur looked back and frowned at him. "I'm home now. I'd like a little bit of peace. Just... hook up your games or whatever else you brought, and leave me alone."

Arthur trudged up the stairs, feeling slightly guilty at the expression that Jones was sporting. It was something akin to a... _kicked puppy_. He had never recalled feeling quite so guilty in the past. It had surprised him earlier when Matthew had pointed out the guitar. He hadn't expected the observation to come from the quiet brother, and he had actually felt pained when he had remembered the events of his youth. Yes, he had been miserable when he was younger, but what right had he had in lashing out at others? What right had _any_ of them had? At what point had the fights and wars seemed right and fair, the knife fights an acceptable way to get out aggression?

Arthur opened the door to his room and tried not to react to the sight, but it was still so strange, so foreign. He hesitantly walked over the the cheap bed and began to search through the bags. Sheets, liners, a couple blankets, clothes... He dropped the bags on the floor and pulled out a sheet, stretching it along the mattress and tucking the ends under the four corners. He moved back to the bag and dug through, trying to find matching blankets, but he soon gave up. The Dane had probably just gone to goodwill and grabbed whatever he had deemed the cheapest. Flannel.

Arthur accepted that fact that he was going to have to do a lot more shopping than he had originally planned. Pianos, clothing, furniture, plates, china... The list went on, and when he finished making the bed, he looked around the room. It had begun to grow dark, and the only light in the room was coming from the door to the hall. The bed was placed awkwardly in the corner, and though Arthur was tempted to move it against the wall to straighten it, he found that he just didn't have the energy. Instead he scavenged through the bags for a pair of black sweatpants he had seen, and a t-shirt. He changed in the walk-in closet (not wanting the git downstairs to walk in on him), and then he crawled into the bed (after dropping a pile of blankets on the floor). He gave a start when something cold brushed his foot, and reached down to find that an index card had managed to get stuck between the layers. He pulled it up and squinted to read it in the darkness.

_Eirik_

_011-47-2***-****_

Arthur shoved the card under his pillow and shut his eyes.

At the same time, Jones was killing monsters on Arthur's television. He had taken the liberty of making himself a sandwich, and upon realizing how slim the choices were in Arthur's refrigerator, had decided that he would get groceries the following morning.

Jones was forced to admit that the house _did_ look a lot better than before, even if it was still creepy as hell. He didn't dare sit in the single chair in the living room. There was a stain on it that looked a lot like blood, and he really didn't want to get any closer to look at it. He had also tried to stay away from the kitchen, except to grab food and drinks. He still remembered the run from the city to Arthur's house after dousing the fae in the poison the professor had given him. It had been complete hell.

Jones had thought he would remember the right path to the old house, but he had taken two wrong turns and found two dead bodies. Even a hero like himself was shaken, and he had, to put it bluntly, lost his lunch at each one. and by the time he had made it to Arthur's house, he had thought the man was dead. There had been an overwhelming smell of rot and ash, and the guy had been curled up on the floor bleeding (he wondered if Arthur had noticed that the tile had been replaced in the kitchen; the Brit had been more concerned with what was in the cupboards).

Jones shivered and looked around. He didn't care what Arthur said; the house was haunted, even if there was supposedly only one left. He wanted nothing to do with the damned place, but the guy on the phone the night before had apparently given the go-ahead, so whatever. He couldn't just leave him alone; Arthur'd probably try to kill himself.

"Just stay the fuck away," Jones muttered to the walls. "Ghosties stay the fuck away. Don't want to deal with you."

He didn't expect it to work, but it was worth a try. If he told them to leave him alone enough, then maybe they would get the message and leave the house altogether.

Jones shivered again and hunched his shoulders, mashing the buttons on the controller quickly. Arthur really didn't skimp on the important things. For one, his laptop was awesome. One of those things that cops used, that can supposedly take a few rounds from a .45 and still turn on. And the second thing? Giant flat-screen tv. Perfect for games like Call of Duty and Time Splitters.

Jones swallowed and began to rotate his shoulders, loosening them up. The place was too creepy. He was beginning to regret the decision to turn off the lights for the gamefest when there was a bang in the kitchen.

"Fucking shit!" Jones cursed. He clumsily hit the power button on the television and jumped to his feet, running for the stairs and lunging up them. He stumbled into Arthur's room and quickly shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it but failing. He looked towards the bed, but Arthur hadn't stirred. The Brit was dead to the world, unaware that an American was leaning against the door and trembling.

It took a few minutes before Jones trusted himself to take a step, and he slowly walked towards the bed, stepping over the pile of blankets on the floor. Arthur was sleeping peacefully, curled up under the blankets with an arm under the pillow, his hands gripping fabric. Alfred slowly placed his hands under the mattress and wheeled it towards the wall, letting the head of the bed bump against the surface. He let go of the mattress and watched Arthur. His breathing was normal, as though he weren't in a haunted house. The sheets moved with his chest, rising and falling slowly. Jones touched his shoulder and jumped when Arthur mumbled something and turned over. He pulled his hand away and watched for a moment longer, then walked back to grab the blankets that had been dropped on the floor. He whipped them and let them flutter to the floor, using three to make a cushion and then using two more to cover himself. He briefly considered changing into his pajamas, but then he remembered that they were downstairs. With the dead things. And then he climbed under the covers and stared at the space under the bed for a long time before he finally managed to shut his eyes and sleep.

Jones was gone when Arthur woke the next day. Arthur sighed and rubbed his face, trying to figure out why it was so bright.

Then he remembered that he was home, out of Jones's tiny apartment. And the curtains were gone from his windows. And it was probably after lunch.

Arthur sat up slowly, letting the blankets pool around his legs as he stared at the wall. He was finding it hard to get up, and knew that if he just let his head drop on the pillow once more, then he could fall back into blissful slumber.

But the house was in disarray. He couldn't just leave it as is.

With a resigned sigh, Arthur untangled himself from the sheets and slowly made his way to the bags on the floor, digging through them for clothes. Jones had made a mess on the floor with his blankets, and had obviously not bothered to tidy anything. Arthur yawned and pulled clothes from the bags, then slowly walked down the stairs, and straight to the bathroom.

His shower seemed to take forever, and he left feeling refreshed, hungry, and relieved that he had washed the sweat and grime off. His neck, however, was painfully stiff. He really had to get a bed that wasn't bought at a corner store.

Arthur found his way back into the kitchen and made some tea in silence, already planning the day ahead.

Find a piano.

Find out how to get said piano into house, in the middle of the woods.

He already knew that it would be a pain in the arse getting the furniture and necessities home. He used to have the fae, and they would simply _send_ it home with the snap of a finger. The most he could send home were groceries, and he didn't know if he could do even that anymore. He certainly hadn't tried, and he was hesitant about finding out.

Had his abilities been the result of being with the fae? Or were they his own? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.

Arthur finished his tea slowly and began to drink, finding relief in the familiar motions. Tea upon waking, tea before bed. It was something that had been hard to do at Jones's apartment, as the uncultured git was a coffee drinker, and afraid of all things foreign. As Arthur thought, he wandered back out to the room where his work desk was situated near the bottom of the stairs, and he sat down before his laptop and waited for it to turn on.

"Any preferences?" Arthur asked softly, but Jonathon didn't appear to answer his question. He took a breath and began to type, setting his cup down on a coaster and waiting for the internet to load.

Arthur lost track of time as he searched online, getting up countless times to refill his cup and make more tea. Jonathon had eventually joined him, wondering about the different types with an expression on his face that seemed caught somewhere between misery and hope.

"Yamaha makes motor vehicles, I doubt they'd know anything about music," Arthur found himself saying countless times as Jonathon motioned. "Why not just go with the Steinway? It has a Royal Warrant from the Queen. And the White House has one."

But as soon as he had decided on the company, he had to think of a size. From five feet to nine, he couldn't make a decision, and Jonathon had finally left him after being unable to make up his mind.

"You have lunch?"

"Didn't hear you come in," Arthur muttered, deciding that he would simply call the company and have them ship whatever was on hand.

"Went shopping."

"Took you a long time," Arthur observed.

"There was a car accident. Had t' help out."

"Ever the hero," Arthur said dryly, but his usual bite wasn't present. Jones cocked an eyebrow and leaned closer.

"Have you had anythin' to eat today?"

"I've been busy."

"I'll make burgers!" Jones said excitedly, and he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Arthur simply sighed and continued to click on various advertisements. It seemed as though he would have to change a lot of things around the house. Living alone (because Jones would be leaving soon enough) was going to be a challenge without help, especially considering he was in the middle of nowhere. He needed a way to get things (_large_ things) home quickly. That meant something slightly bigger than a walking path. Something that was going to cost money.

Jones called then, and Arthur shut the laptop, gathering his dirty cups and returning to the kitchen to deposit them in the sink. Jones looked proud of the fact that he had cooked lunch (or supper, considering the time), and he placed the plate with the oversized burger before Arthur with a grin. Arthur stared at it for a moment before standing and grabbing some silverware, much to Jones's horror.

"You can't cut up a burger!"

"Belt up, Jones," Arthur said, tuning out his further protests. He cut into the burger and began to eat, thinking about his choices as he ate. "Do you have a job?" he finally asked, and Jones looked back at him with a blank stare. Then Jones laughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.

"I uh... I worked at the grocery store a while back."

"You quit?"

"They fired me. I broke the register."

"Ah." Arthur sighed. "You should try to get a job in construction if you're not intent on going to college. With your strength, I'm sure you'd be a valuable asset."

Jones hummed something, and Arthur looked towards the broken clock on the wall. He could sense a habit forming. He would have to throw it out before it drove him crazy. "Did you buy a cot while you were out?" Jones shook his head and Arthur stared at him. "How about this: while you're here, you do some work. I'll pay you, and you can buy whatever you need. Clothes, cot, bed, anything."

Arthur expected Jones to hesitate, but he apparently didn't know him that well. Or Jones was just odd. Either way, Jones beamed, looking absolutely delighted at the thought of work and money (in reality, the situation was looking a lot like a long-term stay at the Kirkland residence).

"Right. Well, you set up that contraption on the television, so you should know how to use a computer. Look up how to make tea, _real tea_, not the bagged stuff." Arthur finished the last bite of his burger and stood to put the plate in the sink. "You make me a cup of tea, and I'll give you a hundred dollars and you can go buy a cot."

"Where're you going?" Jones asked when Arthur walked back towards the living room.

"Bed. I'm tired."

Arthur disappeared, and Jones frowned. "You sleep too much," Jones muttered to himself, staring at the half finished burger in his plate. He grabbed it and finished it, then set off to do the research that would get him into Arthur's good books.


	23. Chapter 23

Arthur woke to the smell of tea.

It took some time to force himself up and out of bed, but somehow he managed to untangle himself from the sheets and blankets on the bed and the floor, and he staggered over to the closet where he had hung his clothes the night before. He stood in silence, staring at the fabrics and blinking his eyes slowly. When he heard a loud thud on the floor below, he yawned and grabbed blindly at the articles of clothing before leaving the room.

Arthur miraculously made it to the kitchen without falling down the stairs or tripping over himself, and he dropped the clothes he had brought down into a chair. Jones turned around and gaped as Arthur took a deep breath and struggled to keep his eyes open.

"You're up early," Jones observed, looking at the cup of tea in his hand and then pushing it hesitantly in front of Arthur.

"Have things to do," Arthur mumbled. He picked up the cup and pressed it to his lips, drinking slowly. Jones had frozen, his back to the sink and his hands latched onto the edge of the counter. He watched Arthur anxiously, and when Arthur finally placed the cup back on the counter, he swallowed.

"Some bits of the tea leaves got through and it needs more milk," Arthur finally said. He stood and grabbed the clothes he had dropped on the counter. "Good for your first try. I'll write you a check after I shower."

Jones waited until he heard the water start in the bathroom across the house before he finally turned around and looked in the sink. There were at least a dozen dirty cups, and he began to pull them out quickly, set on washing them before Arthur finished his shower and found them.

It wasn't long before Arthur returned, and Jones shoved the last teacup into the cupboard. Arthur didn't seem to notice anything; he was bent over the table and scribbling something in a checkbook.

"One hundred," he said when he finally tore the slip of paper from the pad, and he handed it over. "While you're out, go hunt down Mathias and get how much all of this cost. Have him write down his name. I've no idea how to spell it."

Jones nodded and took the paper from Arthur's outstretched hand, refusing to stare at it. "So, uh... Do you need anything in town?"

"Just go buy yourself a cot," Arthur said, closing the book and pocketing the pen. "It has to be more comfortable than the floor." He looked up. "Or you can get an air mattress. I suppose they are bigger. You might like it better."

"What're you gonna be doing?" Jones blurted before he could stop himself, and Arthur stared at him, measuring him.

"I'm going to be calling a construction crew. I'm going to need a driveway if I expect to get that piano out here."

Jones stared at him, blinking a few times. "You're putting in a driveway, for a piano? You know how much that'll-"

"I'm going to be spending eighty-thousand on the piano anyway, might as well go the extra mile." Arthur waved his hand, motioning for Jones to leave. "You don't have to worry about costs. It's my money, and there's plenty of it."

Jones looked uncomfortable, but he left anyway, slowly shutting to door behind him. Arthur walked back across the house and placed the checkbook back in his desk, then settled at his computer once more to figure out what had to be done.

It was obvious that the piano was one of the more important investments. However, he needed a driveway to get said piano _in_. Arthur soon found himself searching through websites and directories for the best in the business, looking through timber harvestors, contractors, even state workers. He made countless phone calls, had no idea what anyone was really talking about, and finally settled on the most expensive one he found (after all, for _that_ amount of money, they had better be fucking good).

The only downside to the entire thing was the time. He had been hoping for two weeks; the contractor had said a month. It had been back and forth, the contractor giving more and more reasons for the time (distance away the gravel was, transportation for equipment), and Arthur had finally insisted on knocking it down to three weeks, hiring additional crews for transportation, and another crew for tree removal that would start the following day. He had dropped numerous hints about bonuses for the crew members, which had played a big part in getting the contractor to agree to the whole thing.

By the time Arthur had hung up the phone, he felt both physically and emotionally exhausted. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, not wanting to know how much time he had spent calling around and arguing with contractors and bankers about costs and payments and things that made him want to throw breakables.

"Arthur, I got food!"

Arthur wasn't sure whether to be relieved or annoyed by the American's call. On one hand, he needed something to take his mind off of the impending construction; on the other, he would have rather remained alone a little while longer.

With a groan, Arthur pushed himself up from his chair and walked back to the kitchen, where Jones was pulling out ceramic plates and opening a steaming pizza box. Arthur eyed the box carefully before looking inside at the cheese and meat covered mess.

"Pepperoni," Jones informed him. "No problem, right?"

"I've never had pizza before," Arthur muttered, still staring at it. "People eat these?"

Arthur received no response, and when he looked up, it was to see Jones's expression of horror.

"You've never had pizza?"

"Well, no-"

"How long have you lived here?"

"Well, I've been _here_ for three years, but before I was in the States for three-"

"_You've been here for six years and you've never had a pizza?_" Jones looked mortified by the very thought. It was rather like looking at a child who had found out that his puppy had just been hit by a car. Pathetic really. Jones snapped out of his stunned daze and began to cut the pieces with a knife, quickly dropping one onto a plate and thrusting it at the Brit. "You have to hurry up and try it!" he demanded, and Arthur looked down at the piece, walking slowly back to the table and sitting down.

Grease dripped off the cheese and pooled at the bottom of the plate, making a small orange puddle that looked disgusting beyond belief. He reached towards the center of the table and pulled a napkin from the holder, glanced at the pizza, and then retrieved four more. He didn't bother attempting to take a bite out of it. He dabbed at it with a napkin, trying to get the grease off, and then he used another napkin when the first was soaked through.

"I think I know why your country is so unhealthy," Arthur mumbled. "Can you grab me a fork?"

"You can't eat pizza with a fork!" Jones exclaimed, and Arthur looked up. Jones was sitting at the other end of the table, watching him carefully while he tore at a piece of pizza, his mouth covered in red sauce. It looked like he had gone outside and hunted down some poor animal for his meal, and Arthur looked down at his slice again.

Three napkins later and Arthur was sure there was no removing the rest of the grease from the damn thing. It had soaked into the crust, he was sure, and it was begging him to eat it, begging him to take one step closer to death. He gave a resigned sigh and took a bite.

Arthur wasn't completely sure what to think of the _thing_ in his mouth. It was greasy, chewy, and had an indescribable taste. Jones looked ecstatic on the other end of the table, and Arthur decided to hold his tongue. As long as Jones didn't make it a habit, the man could occasionally have pizza. One those days, Arthur would simply make sure he had something else on hand so that it wouldn't have to risk his heart on a slice.

"I grabbed a movie at my apartment," Jones told Arthur. "Noticed you didn't have a DVD player so I brought mine over."

"How thoughtful."

"I know, right? So, I bet you'll love the movie! It's "Independence Day," and it's got aliens and fighting and jets and bombers, and-"

Jones continued on as Arthur stared at him incredulously. What part of the movie made Jones think that he would like it? _Aliens and spaceships?_

"I still have some work to finish," Arthur interrupted, but Jones didn't look that bothered.

"We'll move your desk into the living room!"

Just like that, Jones had made his decision. They had barely finished supper (Arthur's one slice of pizza and Jones's four) when Jones was in the other room, dragging the desk in and situating it so that Arthur could sit at it and watch the television at the same time. Arthur didn't bother arguing. He needed to somehow get everything back on track, and start managing his affairs. Otherwise he could make a mistake in the stock market and lose what he had invested.

The rest of the night was spent in relative silence, save for the blaring of the television. Jones had insisted on cranking up the volume, and Arthur had contented himself with sitting back in his leather computer-chair and doing more research, as well as checking out furniture and window replacements (which he would have to get Jones to pick up the following day).

"Totally awesome, right?" Jones asked when the movie finished, but Arthur had collapsed at his desk, breathing deeply as he slept. Jones sighed and turned off the television. "Figures. You missed the best part." With gentle hands, Jones found himself once again carrying Arthur upstairs, dropping him into his bed and covering him with the blankets. Then he blew up his air mattress without the compressor (because god forbid if he woke up Arthur), and crawled into his new bed.

Once again he found himself lying awake, wondering about why he was putting so much effort into helping someone that was stubborn and annoying beyond belief. He groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. He didn't want to think about things like that.

"I want the driveway to start here and go straight out for a quarter-of-a-mile, then turn right and continue for another three-quarters." Arthur hoped he was saying it right. He was used to metric measurements, not the United States's standards, and the man before him was staring as though he were talking to an alien. "Are you listening? I'm trying to be accurate, but you're looking as though I-"

"No, no. That sounds right. Ah, can we just walk it? I want to mark the trail."

Arthur shrugged and turned, leading the way into the forest. "It doesn't need to be terribly wide," he told the man as he walked. "Just enough for a single vehicle to come in through. I'm expecting a shipment in a few weeks, and need it cleared and set up for that."

The contractor nodded as he followed, pushing small trees aside. Arthur had obviously been through many times before, as he didn't appear to have any trouble manuevering himself through the trees without getting a scratch. The contractor was obviously surprised, as he hadn't expected the rich man to have been out there before (and he was also struck by how young the man was, considering the rumored fortune. If someone was putting up almost a million for a driveway as though it wasn't a big deal, then his bank account was obviously spilling over).

"This is the turn," Arthur said, stopping. "Then turn there and just go straight until you get to the house."

The contractor nodded and scratched his chin, shoving his other hand into the pocket of his jeans. He was going to say something, but stopped and stared over Arthur's head. "Who's that?"

Arthur didn't have to look back to see who was coming. "My maid."

"I'm not a maid." Jones pouted as he walked up to the two, and Arthur scowled.

"I pay you to do chores, and you live on site. You're a maid. Did you get the window?"

"It's in the living room."

"You'll have to put it in later," Arthur told him, and he turned his attention back to the contractor. "If you finish clearing it in five days, I'll double your payment."

"That's unnece-"

"I insist," Arthur said. "And I'll recommend you if anyone else bothers to ask. As far as I'm concerned, you do a good job, you deserve the extra pay. I'm sure your men won't object, when they can buy a new television or a diamond for their wife or something."

The contractor swallowed. "We're here to do a good job. If it's finished within a week, it's because it was left up to chance, not rushed. We won't choose speed over quality, and I'm sorry if-"

"That's all I wanted to hear." Arthur looked impressed. "If you finish it within a week and it looks miserable, I wouldn't double it because I'd likely have to pay more to have it repaired before the other crew came in."

The contractor blinked, and Arthur nodded to him before turning away. "Jones, the window can wait until tonight. Do what you want in the mean time, I have to buy some clothes."

Jones nodded and Arthur turned around, already starting back towards the edge of the forest where the crew was readying its equipment.

"He always like that?" the contractor muttered, and Jones grinned.

"He's a grumpy old man," he laughed. "Mind if I hang around an' watch?"

"Just don't get hit by anything," the contractor said, already following where Arthur had disappeared. "Is he walking all the way to the city?"

"He's very anti-motor vehicle," Jones told him. "Like I said, grumpy old man."

The contractor chuckled.


	24. Chapter 24

Arthur's trip to town felt odd after being inside for so long. Everything was brighter somehow, as though a grainy filter had been removed from his eyes, and he had to force himself to keep moving forward, so that he would not marvel at the buildings and look like a fool. He made sure he first stopped at the bank so he could withdraw spending money, as well as discuss his upcoming investments (something his teller ogled at, but who was she to judge his financial decisions?).

Leaving the bank, he headed straight for the nearest clothing store, determined to find something other than the jeans and t-shirts that Mathias had bought from goodwill to replace the ones he had thrown out. The jeans felt _wrong_, and the t-shirts were truly uncomfortable. Especially since the house he lived in was old, and more often than not there was a draft letting in the cold air. He had also bought bedding (_Egyptian cotton_, instead of that damned flannel), and a mattress pad. He may not be able to get a new bed in the coming weeks, but he was going to at least try to make what he was left with more comfortable.

The shopping didn't take terribly long, and he soon realized that he had to return home, as he was running out of hands to carry his things. He started back, down the cracked sidewalk and past the various wire-frame trashbins, when he reached the bar. He hesitated, then decided to go in and at least pay back his debt.

If only the place had been empty.

The jeers started immediately. Men were calling out, asking what a housewife was doing in the bar, if "she" wanted a cigar. Arthur grit his teeth and walked to the bar, not setting down his bags as he pulled a folded (and slightly wrinkled) check from his pocket.

"You got the hell out pretty damn fast," Mathias said as soon as he made his way to the Brit, and Arthur waved the check.

"I have to get home. Immediately. Take the damn thing."

Mathias shrugged and opened it, hesitating when he saw the total. "This is three-hundred more than-"

"Don't care. Take it and cash it, deposit it, I don't care." Arthur was already leaving, keeping his bags close and glaring at anyone that bothered to look towards him. So what if he shopped for himself! He didn't have a wife to do it for him!

Though, thinking back, he could have sent Jones. He shook his head as he started down the sidewalk that led out of town. The git would've probably had him in flower-print shirts and black jeans if he had let him choose anything.

Arthur hunched his shoulders as he walked, flexing his fingers around the bags in his hands. It was getting colder as the day went on, and though it was only about two o'clock, the temperature was dropping as darkness crept closer. Arthur shivered and straightened his spine, rotating his shoulders in a feeble attempt to get rid of the cold. He thought about trading his jacket for the heavier coat in his shopping bag, but decided against it. He was approaching the dirt road that led to the path to his house, and figured that he could last until then. It was just over a mile after all.

As he neared the path to the house, he decided to continue on the dirt road for a while longer, to see what had happened at the work site. He could hear the roar of engines and the buzz of a saw, and he was curious as to what they were doing.

The site of what had once been forest was surprising. Where trees had once stood, there were stumps and the treads of heavy machinery. Workers were moving about, there were various buckets of oils and other unidentifiable liquids, and there were numerous machines moving about, trapping trees in a pincer-like claw and then cutting them near the trunk with a saw. Stumps were being torn from the ground and lifted into trucks, trees were being stacked on log trucks, and there was sawdust and mud _everywhere_.

One of the tree-cutting machines was surrounded by men who were watching it with interest, and Arthur watched curiously. It was moving just as fast as the others, though maybe with a slightly jerkier movement that he simply attributed to the ground. One of the hard-head wearing workers saw him and walked back, dodging around stumps and machinery with a grin on his face. After a moment, Arthur recognized him as the contractor from the morning.

"Had to make the area bigger to get all o' the crew in," the contractor said, and then he saw where Arthur was looking. "Guess you noticed."

"Something wrong with the machine?" Arthur asked. "I'd rather work not be slowed by injuries."

"Nah, nothing like that. Al's using the feller buncher. Guys wanna see it."

Arthur's eyes widened slightly. "Jones is driving it?"

"He was helping out earlier, did a good job," the contractor said. "I had Jim show him how t' use it, told him to have some fun. He catches on quick."

"Apparently," Arthur said as another tree was cut down and set onto a log truck.

"He's fast. Smart worker."

"Only the best work in the Kirkland Manor," Arthur said dryly, and the contractor laughed.

"We'll probably finish clearing in a few days, then it'll just be clearing out where you want the road."

Arthur nodded and looked around. He only wanted the drive to be sixteen feet wide, but the space they were clearing was easily thirty. "Will I be able to get trees to fill in the space? I'd rather have the drive closed in when everything's done."

The contractor scratched his chin. "Pine grows fast," he offered. Arthur frowned towards the edge of the trees, and the contractor continued. "You might be able to find some trees at Home Depot or something. Think they sell some eight footers, but I don't know, this time of year. You'd be better off putting down some lawn seed or something on the banks on the side in the spring, planting the trees 'round the same time."

"Right," Arthur said, and he shivered. "Well, I should be getting to the house." He looked around. "It does look nice. Odd, but nice."

The contractor nodded and returned to the machine where Jones was working, and Arthur cut into the forest, heading towards his old house. The trip was a bit colder, and it seemed longer than usual, but when he finally found his way into the house, he sighed with relief. The warmth chased away the cold that had seeped into his skin, and he shed his jacket and shoved it into the closet. He didn't bother taking the bags upstairs. Instead he dropped them on the kitchen table and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, moving into the living room where his desk remained from the night before. He dropped into the computer chair and turned on the television, leaning back and popping open his beer as the news came on.

It was another two hours before Jones returned to the house. Apparently his experience with the cutting machine had been the height of his life, from how he went on and on about cutting trees and tossing them into trucks and piles. Arthur watched the weather as Jones droned on, cooking in the kitchen and continuing to boast about his "awesome clear-cutting abilities."

Arthur was just glad he had found a possible way to get Jones out of his hair.

"And I put the window in after you left," Jones said. Arthur began to hear the sizzle of food, and the unmistakable smell of bacon filled the room. "It was easy. I did it a few times back home, when Mattie or I broke a window playing."

Arthur grabbed the now-empty beer bottle from the desk and walked back into the kitchen, dropping it into the sink to be cleaned and recycled later. Jones had moved the bags from the kitchen table to the floor in the living room, and Arthur took a seat at the table.

"How was your childhood, if I may ask?" Arthur wondered, watching the back of Jones's head as he cooked.

"It was awesome!" Jones exclaimed, suddenly more enthusiastic. "See, we had all kinds of horses, and we'd bring the cattle in and take it out. There were the cowhands and the hay lofts... It was amazing." He looked back, and his blue eyes shone behind the lenses of his glasses. "Dad always trusted us to take the cows out when they had to go to different fields, cause y'know, the grass gets low and had to grow again. So we'd ride out there and take them where they had to go, and in the spring they'd drop their kids-"

"Drop?"

"Y'know, give birth! So we'd be out there with the cows, and they'd have their calves, and... It was always amazing," Jones decided. "There's nothing like it in the world. The cows were great moms. When Mattie an' I were kids, we'd ride the cows. Everyone'd laugh cause the cows would throw a fit, but it was always cool."

Arthur watched Jones closely. His laughter was pure and real, and he was obviously happy thinking about it.

"How did you end up here?" Arthur asked. "Why didn't you stay on the ranch?"

"Drought and land sharks," Jones said simply. "Was smarter to sell than keep it. Dad came out of it pretty well, an' Mattie went to college."

"And you?"

Jones smiled, and Arthur found that there was no resentment or regret. He seemed happy, even though he was so far away from what he had loved. "I'm helping people," Jones said. "See, I'm helping you, and I helped save lives. I'm getting to see the other side of things, and it's awesome!" Jones finally stepped away from the stove, and Arthur could see the eggs and bacon on the pan before him.

"How much should I pay you for the work today, Jones?" Arthur asked, and Jones looked back to stare at him. "You're obviously not on their payroll, but I heard you did a good job anyway. How much?"

Jones shook his head. "You should seriously call me Alfred," he said. He set a potholder on the table and then put the pan of food on it, grabbing plates and silverware and setting them down beside it. "We're living together, remember?"

"That doesn't tell me what to pay you," Arthur said, watching as Jones began to transfer the food from the pan to the plates.

"Don't worry about it," Jones told him. "I'm a hero, remember? I help people, without reward." Jones passed the plate back to him and smiled before settling down in his own chair and beginning to scarf down food.

Arthur blinked in confusion, and then he began to eat his own food.

The next week passed in the blink of an eye. Mainly because Arthur didn't want to get up.

He had felt so tired, and it had taken quite some time every morning for him to finally convince himself to get up. Jones had even gone and bought him an alarm clock as a joke (but Arthur used it anyway).

The tea that waited for him on the counter every morning was a great help, and while it was never perfect, it felt better than having to make it himself. Arthur had found himself varying between sluggish and enthusiastic. There were times he felt he could take on the world and finish old projects, but then the enthusiasm changed to a complete lack of energy, and he could want to go to bed or hide away in his computer chair until the sun went down and he could finally crawl into bed and sleep.

Jones disappeared every morning to help the workers, and every night he would return and make supper while recounting the tales of the day, from the stump that had almost crushed one of the workers (he had pushed the worker out of the way), to the chain on the feller buncher that had snapped, and how the contractor (Steven) had shown him how to change it.

"But the cutting's done, so they're just finishing pulling out the stumps with the excavator," Jones told him one night when they were having tacos. "He says that'll probably take a couple days, but the other crew's already moving equipment in. How much are you paying them, anyway? Cause they're going really fast. I mean, insanely fast. And Steven said that there's more than one crew there for the road."

"I called two crews for the road," Arthur answered, and Jones hummed, taking a drink from his cup. Jones had insisted on going shopping after the work had finished numerous times, more often than not to buy soda and other snacks. Arthur sipped his tea and wondered when he should tell Jones to start making better food (_tacos_ did _not_ count as food) when Jones finally spoke.

"Are you losing weight?"

Arthur stared at Jones for a moment, then looked down at his clothes. They seemed to fit normally, he had no idea what Jones was talking about. He looked back up to see that Jones was craning his neck to look at him. "You look like you've lost weight. Are you eating enough?"

"I haven't stopped eating," Arthur said indignantly, and Jones furrowed his brow.

"What about breakfast? And lunch?"

Arthur was about to snap at him, but then he realized that it was true. He hadn't had more than tea for breakfast in a long time, and he couldn't remember _ever_ eating lunch.

"I'll make sure you get eggs or something in the morning," Jones decided as he took another bite of the mess that was a taco. Bits of lettuce and ground beef littered his plate, and Arthur grimaced.

"You don't have to-"

"You're gonna waste away if you skip breakfast," Jones said. "Haven't you ever heard? Most important meal of the day?"

"Are you sure that's not the slogan of the cereal companies?" Arthur muttered, and Jones laughed. Then Jones made a sound of surprise, as though something had just hit him.

"Christmas!"

"That's in three weeks," Arthur reminded. "You didn't miss it; I promise." He picked up a piece of beef with a fork (something he had had to threaten Jones to get) and popped it in his mouth.

"No, no, I'm not missing it or anything. I mean, Matt wants to spend Christmas together!"

"And you will get the chance at your own apartment," Arthur told him.

"No way!" Jones looked scandalized. "I can't fit a tree in my apartment!"

"Buy artificial," Arthur muttered. He was preoccupied with his food, and missed the smirk that crossed Jones's face.

"I wanna invite him over here!" Jones said loudly, and Arthur choked on his food.

Jones watched silently as Arthur coughed and hacked, finishing his tea in an attempt to clear his airway. Once the coughing fit had finished, he looked up at the man across the table from him, confusion and suspicion marking his features.

"No."

"But it'll be fun! We can go get a tree out back, and we can put up lights and-"

"There's no extra bed."

"I can buy Mattie a cot for Christmas!" Jones grinned at Arthur, but then hesitated when he saw the glare that he was receiving. "What's so bad about it?" he asked, frowning. "Is it 'cause of Francis?"

"That frog is not stepping foot in my house," Arthur growled.

"What've you got against him?" Jones demanded, forgetting that he was rather biased against the man for corrupting his innocent brother.

"He's French."

There was a long silence, and Arthur used that time to finish the abomination on the plate in front of him. "He's not coming to this house, and if it means your brother isn't coming, then so be it."

With that, Arthur shoved his plate into the sink and left the room, marching up the stairs and to the bedrooms above.


	25. Chapter 25

The falling snow was _not_ making Arthur a happy person. Especially when he had nothing to do, and the only thing that interested him at all was sitting outside on a fallen tree and watching the crew that was putting in the driveway.

Jones had insisted on joining him, and he talked cheerfully on the opposite end of the tree, wondering how hard it was to learn to use the equipment, as well as if the workers would actually be able to finish on time. Then he had decided to get them all _coffee_, and had disappeared into the trees where the house was.

Arthur was regretting buying the coffee machine. He had figured that it would be a nice reward for Jones's services, a treat to placate the American and hopefully distract him from his intentions to invite his brother (plus one) for Christmas.

Except that Jones had decided that he wanted to _show it off_ to his brother. The dozens of cups of coffee the man consumed a day made Arthur feel ill, and made Jones act wild. The man never seemed to sleep. He was in bed after Arthur, and awake before (though Arthur had succumbed to old habits and was sleeping far too often, waking late and sleeping early).

Arthur rested his chin in the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. He tried to ignore the dampness that was slowly creeping through his pants and chilling his skin. He considered joining Jones back at the house, but the thought of all the coffee was enough to make his stomach churn. Jones had tried giving him some, replacing his tea with it the day after he got it. Arthur remembered the disgust as the thick fluid went down his throat, then he had spat it out on the floor. Jones, the git, had been caught somewhere between horror and amusement, and had been unable to contain the gasp, and then the laughter (and Arthur had made him mop the bathroom floor for that one, bleeding git. But he had still laughed in his face anyway, even while he was crouched on the floor and cleaning).

Arthur huffed and used his free hand to pull his coat tighter around himself. It was becoming boring, watching the men plow dirt and work on the culverts. He began to drum his fingers against his cheek, then jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder.

"Bit jumpy today," Jones observed, and Arthur would _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

"You're supposed to be making coffee," he grumbled.

"Already did!" Jones held up a large container that Arthur didn't know he possessed, and then he placed a travel mug into Arthur's hand.

"You know I don't drink coffee," Arthur said. He pushed the cup back towards Jones, but the American shook his head, smiling.

"It's tea. 'f I gave you coffee you'd waste it and dump it 'r something."

"How thoughtful," Arthur muttered, casting a glare at the man. But Jones simply wandered towards the workers with a content smile, and Arthur was left alone. Arthur stared at the cup in his hands, then took a slow sip. He shook the snow out of his hair as he tasted the tea, swallowing and staring at the cup. "Needs more milk," he decided, but he settled back and drank deeply, watching the commotion as workers took a short break for the refreshment.

"What is that?" Jones stopped in his tracks, not even shaking the snow from his body as he stared at Arthur and the... _thing._

"They're scones," Arthur said. He placed the tray next to the scone, and Jones shook his head slowly.

"No... No those _aren't._ I bought you scones at the store, remember? And those- those are not scones. Nuh uh."

"What you bought were American imitations," Arthur grumbled as he set a scone aside in a plate, dabbing some cream onto it, "filled with sugar and questionable ingredients that probably shouldn't exist. _These_ are home made, and far healthier than whatever you thought those things at the store were."

Jones watched Arthur eat the darkened lump with an expression of morbid fascination. Arthur tried to ignore the man watching him, set on finishing his food without suffering Jones's intolerable babble.

"I could've made dinner, y'know," Jones said, his eyes still locked on the lumps.

"I don't think you've bought or made anything yet that wasn't covered in grease and fat," Arthur muttered. He missed the hurt that passed over Jones's face. The other had begun to search through the refrigerator for something to eat.

"The driveway should be done in another week," Jones called from where he was bent in front of the appliance.

"Good. The piano should be coming when it's done."

"Right." Jones appeared with a package of hotdogs and rolls, and he began to dig through the cupboards for a pot.

"Jones, how long are you planning on staying?" Arthur asked, glancing over at him. Jones tensed, then laughed it off.

"You need all the help you can get," Jones told him. "I should stay for a while!"

"Hmm." Arthur said nothing more as he took his plate to the table, sitting back and sipping at the cup of tea he had left there.

There was silence in the room. Arthur seemed completely comfortable with it, while Jones felt awkward, standing before the stove and prodding at the hotdogs that were floating in the boiling water.

"Weren't you going to paint your room?" Jones asked, trying to start a conversation so that he wouldn't feel so uncomfortable. Arthur shrugged. "I got the paint at the store and everything. Have you used it yet?"

"No," Arthur muttered.

"I can help," Jones offered. "We can paint it tomorrow, and then we can stain the floor."

Arthur shrugged, and Jones swallowed.

"We'd have to put the beds in the haunted room."

"How many times do I have to tell you, the room is _not_ haunted!" Arthur sounded exasperated with the question, and Jones had to chuckle. A few weeks before, Arthur had snapped at everything he deemed "annoying" or "foolish." He was calming down.

"Whatever you say, Artie."

If Arthur thought that painting the room would be simple, he was sorely mistaken.

Jones had been far too enthusiastic that morning, moving the bed and air mattress into the "haunted room" and gathering brushes while Arthur finished his morning tea. Jones had waited impatiently for him to finish, then had dragged him back upstairs into the bedroom, where he had haphazardly tossed old sheets and blankets around the room to protect the floors. He had already opened the cans of paint, and with an eager grin, he jumped forward and began to paint.

"I take it you actually like to work," Arthur grumbled as he slowly dipped his brush into the can of paint and wiped the excess off on the rim.

"It's fun," Jones said, making quick work of the area around the window. Arthur reached up and slowly drew the brush down, the deep blue reminding him of the oceans that he had seen when he had first arrived in the States. He wasn't sure whether to frown or smile at the memory. He continued the movements, wondering if he had a stool in the house so that he could reach to the ceiling. He considered the chair that still sat, avoided, in the living room, but then Jones was reaching over his head and filling in the empty spots.

"Thanks," Arthur murmured, not really paying attention. He was concentrating more on the task at hand, and missed Jones's words.

Jones could see that he was being ignored and moved to the side, swallowing and continuing to paint, every so often moving back to get wherever Arthur couldn't reach. He wanted to start a conversation, but even he felt the peace that seemed to fill the room, and began to understand that there was no real need for words.

The two worked in silence for hours, filling the room with color and erasing the memories of the things that had tried to destroy Arthur for so long. And when Arthur, caught up in trying not to get blue paint on the white window frame, unconsciously called out to _Alfred_ for a bucket of paint, _Alfred _had to force himself to calm down, so that he wouldn't betray the feeling of triumph that he was trying so hard to hide.

"What d'you want for Christmas?"

Arthur didn't even look up from his computer. "Alfred, how much money do you think I have? Do you _really_ think there's something I want but don't have?"

Alfred watched him intently as he typed, ignoring his video game. Arthur was caught up in ordering furniture for the house, since the driveway was expected to be finished in the next few days. He had been set on ordering a new bed, relieved that he would be rid of the old one (which he had already told Alfred he could have).

"Didn't you have to go out today?" Alfred said, and Arthur looked up. An expression of confusion darkened his face as he leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"I didn't think I did," Arthur mused.

"Thought it was something 'bout the bank," Alfred added helpfully. "Wasn't there-"

"Ah, they kept trying to block the transactions," Arthur recalled, and he glanced at the clock. "I wonder if they're still open..."

"They don't close until seven."

"Odd bank."

"Big city."

Arthur was already getting up, shutting his laptop and moving through the kitchen to get his coat. "I'll be back in an hour!" he called back, and Alfred listened as he shut the door and left.

Alfred waited in silence, the game long forgotten. He had to wait for Arthur to get far enough away so that when he began his work, Arthur wouldn't return in the middle of it.

He wasn't sure how long he waited, listening to the ticking of a clock he had never noticed was there. He finally decided that he had waited long enough, and he started outside to put his plan into motion.

Arthur's trip to town was boring and painful. The bank tellers were all stupid beyond belief and unable to use a keyboard properly, the people walking down the sidewalks were all singing Christmas carols, and it had started to snow (again). This time, the snow was actually threatening to stick around, and who knew _what _would happen to his unfinished driveway. He kept his hands in his pockets as he walked down the streets and back towards his house, pausing only to shove a fistful of money into the jar of some Santa that was waving a cowbell.

The traffic was horrendous, and he was worried about being hit by one of the geniuses that was using four-wheel drive, but he managed to find his way back to the house okay, not even noticing the suspicious shadows around the corner. He walked inside and shook himself off, not wondering why the lights were low and Alfred was nowhere to be seen. He simply thought the man had gone to bed after running around all day (though that would be odd, considering he was convinced the bedroom that they were still sleeping in was haunted).

However, he was very mistaken. He passed through the kitchen and there was Alfred, sitting at the computer desk with an eerie grin that made him stop and shiver.

"Arthur," Alfred greeted cheerfully, and Arthur relaxed slightly, though he still watched the teen with a great deal of suspicion.

"Are you sick?" Arthur asked, and he glanced towards the television. The news was on.

"I thought of an awesome Christmas present," Alfred told him, and he got up from the computer chair. Arthur unconsciously took a step back, and then Alfred motioned for him to follow into the adjoining room, towards the bottom of the stairs.

It was pitch black. Even the large window over the stairs let in no light, and Arthur began to feel the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. He wasn't sure what the hell Alfred was planning, but he was sure that he wasn't going to like it.

There was a click, and a flicker of white light.

And Arthur was staring at a Christmas tree.

"Bit early for Christmas presents, but I thought you'd like it," Alfred was already saying. The tree was shoved in the corner where Arthur's desk had been before, and it stood eight feet tall. White and blue lights were draped over it, tiny angelic ornaments decorating the branches. A white star stood on the top, twinkling with blue lights to match the rest of the tree.

Arthur could only stare in wonder. He couldn't remember ever having a Christmas tree. Hell, he couldn't even remember having a Christmas. The thick pine tree looked ominous yet inviting in his house, and he let his fingers reach out and touch the branches, watching as the tree shook slightly.

"I hope you realize that you're vacuuming up the pine needles," he said, but his voice lacked any real conviction. It simply held wonder, and behind him, Alfred grinned and congratulated himself. Then he bent down and turned on a power strip, and more white and blue lights danced up the railing of the stairs, fading and twinkling like stars in the sky. Arthur followed them with his eyes, entranced, and Alfred's grin only grew wider.

"Thank you, Alfred," Arthur murmured, and he was surprised to find that he meant it.


	26. Chapter 26

Arthur's hopes had been realized when his new furniture arrived in the back of a box truck. A new bed for him, a couch for the living room, matching chairs for the room that held only the Christmas tree, a bureau for his room- everything seemed to be somehow falling into place. Alfred had finally slept in his own room, off the floor and in the mattress that Arthur had originally used. Arthur finally had privacy during the nights, and was able to sleep alone.

And then Jonathon's piano arrived, and the spectre was overjoyed to see the instrument, to finally play once again!

And Alfred was back in Arthur's room, burrowed in his blankets on top of the air mattress on the floor.

Arthur sighed as he looked at the bundle on the floor, wondering when Alfred had managed to sneak in and inflate the mattress. The bundle shivered as Arthur watched it, and then he finally spoke.

"Why are you in my room?" The bundle mumbled something about ghosts, and Arthur arched one of his oversized eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"The piano's creepy," Alfred said, raising his voice just a little. "Thought, well, I dunno. Maybe you were creeped out 'r somethin'."

Arthur stared at the lump and shook his head. "I'm not the one shaking like a leaf on the floor."

"I'm just cold, damn it!"

"I'm sure," Arthur muttered. "But honestly, how can a _piano_ be creepy? Last time I checked, Moonlight Sonata was a classic."

"Yeah, well, pianos aren't supposed to play themselves."

"But Jonathon is the one playing it," Arthur reminded. If anything, Alfred's shaking intensified. Arthur watched the American tremble for a while, then he laid back down and turned around, facing the opposite direction from where the American was sleeping. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore the faint sounds of shifting fabric that came from the air mattress on the floor.

"Go to sleep, Alfred. No ghost is going to come up those stairs and into the rooms."

"They'll come through the floor..."

"What did you say?"

Alfred didn't answer him, and Arthur assumed that he had simply turned over and gone to sleep (finally). Arthur pressed his face into his pillow, took a deep breath, and slept.

Alfred was obviously excited for Christmas. After the tree, he had also revealed that the entire outside of the house was covered in the gaudy lights (that actually did look okay when all of the lights were off). And then he had started on about how he had wanted his brother to see the house, and how everything had changed and been made better, and Arthur found that it was easier to just give in and let him invite his brother over. He was sure it would be a painful ordeal, especially since it looked as though Francis wasn't about to return home to France for the holidays. Instead, the frog was going to be staying at the house. With Matthew.

Arthur had already decided that he would be as nice as possible. There was no reason to hit his maid's brother's boyfriend, and he would likely be viewed as the one at fault if he did. Even if he _had_ sent Alfred out to buy presents for the guests to be a good host (it wasn't as if he knew what they would want), any violence would make him look bad.

Arthur sat back on the new leather couch, watching the news with feigned interest. Alfred was still gone, buying food, picking out gifts, procuring wrapping paper... The list went on, and Arthur yawned. Alfred had been complaining (yet again) about the music before he had left, and Arthur had spent the better part of the morning searching through the attic for music books. He had found quite a few, but none had had any Christmas music. He had finally just found Greensleeves and given it to the ghost, telling him it was more "in season." Jonathon had of course complied, and was now letting his graceful transparent fingers slide over the keys and produce the old song. Arthur let himself relax on the couch, wondering what to do. He was bored. The story about a four year old that could read at a sixth grade level was quite possibly the most painful thing he had ever had the misfortune of watching, and he sighed.

So terribly bored.

He found himself wandering the house, from the kitchen to the upstairs bedrooms, considering buying wall decorations and new plants to grow (as the Dane had thrown out all of the old ones with the piano). Nothing really caught his attention, and soon enough, he found himself in the library.

Arthur sat down on the piano bench silently, watching as Jonathon's fingers slid over the pearly keys, pressing down and switching to the ebony sharps and flats. He envied the ghost, but pitied him at the same time. If he hadn't been killed, he would have been great. He could have been playing with a band, traveling the country instead of trapped in the old house where he had died.

Arthur leaned against the edge of the piano, watching the fingers as they played. He hummed softly in time with song, and his eyes strayed to the guitar in the corner. He stared at it, imagining running his fingers over the frets and fingering the strings, then wondered if he still knew how to play. It had been years since he had touched the thing, and he was sure it was horribly out of tune.

Arthur got up from the bench and picked it up slowly, placing the strap over his shoulder and strumming a single string. He listened intently, trying to remember what E sounded like. He strummed again, and then a third time, listening to the sound. After a few minutes, he could hear a single note, and he looked up. Jonathon had stopped playing, and the ghost watched him with its milky eyes. Arthur stared at it, then he swallowed. "Er... An E?" he ventured, and Jonathon pressed down a single key. Arthur nodded and steadied the guitar neck with his left hand as he reached across with his right, twisting the tuning peg carefully. "Again, please."

Jonathon pressed the key again, a patience gained after decades of being alone, and Arthur went on tuning the instrument, only speaking when he needed another note played on the piano. He finished and stared at the guitar in silence while Jonathon continued his song, leaving Arthur to think. Arthur let his left fingers slide along the fretboard, strumming slowly with his right hand and then trying to match Jonathon's pace. The ghost slowed, as though waiting for him to catch up, and then the speed increased slowly, until they finally played in unison, playing as it was meant to be played. Jonathon seemed happier with someone to play with, and Arthur trembled slightly, his intestines churning in what could have been fright or apprehension.

_So long._ It had been _so long_ since he had played the instrument. He had used to live with it, playing music in a band that had no talent, using it as a weapon when he got annoyed, just _playing to play_. He swallowed as he played, his body slowly remembering the motions and speeding up to keep with the piano. Jonathon had seemed to forget about him, playing at his own speed and leaving Arthur to pick up the slack.

It was nice. Playing without a care, not having to think about everything beyond the library door; it was peaceful. Jonathon never stopped playing, ending the song and continuing on, repeating without end.

Arthur stopped playing. Jonathon continued on without a care, and Arthur slowly brushed the dried blood from the body, picking it off. No need for it to be there, like some morbid reminder of his past. He sighed and removed the guitar, setting it back on the stand and then walking back to the door to leave the room.

Arthur closed the door and eyed the tree on his right, touching one of the small branches. It did smell rather nice. And the lights weren't gaudy, either. He would never have expected Alfred to pick out such colors; he would have expected reds and greens and blues and too many colors to count, but the American had proven that he could be... _subtle_.

"It's snowing out."

Arthur looked up to see Alfred sitting on the couch, flipping through channels and settling on an action movie. "Couple inches so far. Looks like it'll stay."

"I'll call a plow," Arthur said, and he looked past Alfred, at the rolls of wrapping paper in the corner.

"Presents are on the table."

"I thought you were going to have them sent here," Arthur said, walking into the kitchen and looking at the gifts. They were already wrapped in bright red and green paper, and Alfred shrugged.

"Bringing 'em back wasn't a problem. I could carry 'em." Alfred turned around on the couch and stared at Arthur. "Were you playing guitar?"

"A little," Arthur muttered, wondering what he was going to do with the boxes.

"Was really good," Alfred told him. He got up from the couch and grabbed the boxes, walking to the tree with them and sliding them under the lowest branches. "You should play more."

"Jonathon is an excellent partner," Arthur said as he walked to his computer desk and sat down, grabbing his cell phone from one of the drawers. He was already dialing information, set on hiring someone to plow the drive, and Alfred spoke again.

"They're going to get here tomorrow night," Alfred said. "Matt called when I was out."

"I thought they were getting here Christmas morning." Arthur frowned and Alfred shrugged.

"Something changed, so they're coming the night before."

Arthur sighed, then spoke when the operator answered. He had hoped for as little time with the visitors as possible, but it seemed as though he was going to suffer during what was supposed to a peaceful time of year.

Christmas Eve was unexciting. Alfred had gone around the house multiple times to make sure that everything was perfect, and he had insisted on setting up a cot in his bedroom. Arthur had tried to convince him to sleep there while his brother was visiting (after all, all he needed was another human in the same room when he was scared), but he had insisted on sleeping on the air mattress in Arthur's room. Of course Arthur wasn't happy with the decision. With Alfred sleeping on the floor in Arthur's room, there was no one to keep the Frenchman and Matthew from... _getting closer_. Arthur shuddered at the thought. A Frenchman in his house was one thing, but a Frenchman doing- He had to stop thinking about those things.

"You're going to have to show them the driveway," Arthur finally said, and Alfred looked up from his video game.

"Huh?"

"The driveway is a mile farther than the other path. They'll miss it, unless you told him about it."

"Ah. Damn. Yeah." Alfred was already in the kitchen, pulling on his boots and jacket. It was still snowing, and then he plunged into the darkness outside.

Arthur sipped his tea. It was a shame that the others would be there for the rest of the week, but, well, He supposed Alfred had earned it, with all of his hard work. He would be tame for a week, and he would prevent a massacre.

It wasn't long before there was the sound of a truck in the driveway, and Arthur sighed. He picked up his cup and returned it to the kitchen, setting it down in the sink. The only highlight about the day was the delivery of the new china and silverware, so he would finally have complete sets again.

"How'd you know they were there?" Alfred asked when he walked in through the front door. There was a lot of shuffling and thumping as the trio entered the house, and Arthur shrugged at Alfred's question.

"Hey," Matthew greeted, and Arthur nodded at him.

"Welcome back," Arthur started, but Alfred had already grabbed his brother in a headlock, dragging him from the room as soon as his shoes were off.

"You gotta check out the tree!" Alfred exclaimed, and the two disappeared into the other room.

That left only Francis and Arthur.

Francis had his eyes locked on the Brit, and Arthur immediately turned to the sink, intent on cleaning the dishes from lunch and dinner.

"He said you already ate," Arthur offered, and Francis nodded.

"You seem to have brightened," Francis observed, and Arthur was saved from answering when Alfred shouted.

"Arthur, where's the extra present from?"

Arthur ignored Alfred's shout, letting the water run to warm it. Then the man was in the room, cheerfully looking over his shoulder at the sink that Arthur was quickly filling.

"What's the extra present?"

"It's for Jonathon," Arthur said, and he had to hide a smirk when Alfred made a face.

"Jonathon?" Francis asked, and Alfred looked at him over Arthur's head.

"Ghost."

"You named it?"

"That was his _real name_, thank you very much," Arthur said dryly.

"You talk to it?" Francis looked confused, and then there was a sound of surprise as music started across the house.

"Alfred, it's Moonlight Sonata, not a funeral march," Arthur huffed as he began to scrub the dishes in the sink.

"Doesn't he know how to play anything... _fun?_"

"I'm not going to tell him to play Jingle Bells," Arthur grumbled. He didn't catch what was said behind him, but then Alfred and Francis were leaving the room in favor of the television (thank god).

Arthur scrubbed the plates as though possessed, and after a few minutes he realized that Matthew was standing beside him. He barely managed to keep himself from jumping, and he dropped a plate in the sink.

"Can I help you?" Arthur asked, and Matthew smiled softly.

"I just wanted... Is Al okay? I mean, he's not trouble or anything, is he?"

"He's annoying, but he works," Arthur answered. He pulled a plate from the sink, and then Matthew grabbed it, wiping it with a dry towel that was set to the left of the sink.

"So, he's not causing any trouble?"

"Wish he were as polite as you are," Arthur muttered. He glanced over at Matthew, and when he saw his worried expression, he sighed. "Alfred's been a great help. We've gotten a lot done around the house."

"Yeah, the uh, driveway's a big hint." Matthew swallowed. "He said he worked with the construction crew."

"He wouldn't leave them alone." Arthur yawned. "I'm going to bed. You can stay up, do whatever." Arthur looked over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. "The walls are thin. Remember that."

Matthew looked confused, and then, after Arthur drained the sink and said goodnight, he looked mortified.


	27. Chapter 27

It wasn't even 6 a.m. and Arthur already wished that Christmas would end.

He hadn't anticipated the American's exuberance, so when the teen jumped on him with a shout of "Christmas!" he reacted in a very reasonable manner.

"God-fucking-damn-it, what the hell are you doing?"

But Alfred was already gone, presumably to raid the other bedroom and wake up his brother. Arthur really expected screams of terror (there was a Frenchman in the room after all), but all he heard were the soft sounds of Matthew scolding his brother, and the groans of what was probably a waking Francis. Arthur sat silently, then looked over at the clock on his nightstand.

5:37. A.M.

_Five-fucking-thirty-seven._

Someone was going to get hell for this (if he didn't smother himself with a pillow first).

Arthur heard Alfred returning, the pounding of his feet on the old wood floors making him cringe. He had never noticed before that there was an echo, but, of course, he had never thought that anyone could be loud enough to find out.

"C'mon, Arthur!" Alfred shouted, and Arthur slowly crawled out of the bed, hesitating when his bare feet hit the cold floor. It should be illegal to wake someone before seven. Alfred, seemingly satisfied that Arthur was up, fled the room once more, and Arthur could hear him thumping down the stairs. He sighed and walked gingerly to the closet, slowly pushing aside shirts and slacks. He pulled out a pair of black pants and a white shirt, decided that it was probably the best he was going to get, and then he shut (and locked) his bedroom door to change. He had already decided that there was no way in hell he would walk around in pajamas when there were guests in the house, and he could shower once Alfred was done his... whatever it was.

Arthur pulled on a pair of socks and finally left his room, wandering downstairs. Alfred had already pushed the two chairs and the couch from the living room into the room with the tree, and Arthur immediately started for the kitchen.

"Where're you goin'?" Alfred called, fixing the position of one of the chairs.

"Tea," Arthur grumbled. "If I'm going to be up this early, then-"

"I already made some," Alfred chirped, and Arthur looked back. "It's on the counter, next to the coffee maker."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, wondering if, in addition to waking him early, Alfred was intent on poisoning him with bitter coffee. However, Alfred's expression looked innocent (the teen couldn't lie to save his life), and he accepted that the tea was genuine.

And for that he was grateful.

Arthur soon found himself sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, sipping his tea and watching quietly as Alfred and Matthew joked around, Alfred punching his brother in the arm and Matthew giving him a look that could kill (in a supposedly lighthearted manner). Francis was leering at him from the couch where he had grabbed a seat with Matthew, and Alfred was leaning over the arm of his own chair, as well as the arm of the couch, to reach his brother.

As Arthur watched, he realized that Matthew was just as excited as his brother, even if he was a lot more subdued. He just expressed his excitement silently, letting his brother take lead while he followed behind. Arthur wondered if he had ever found it hard (he had always had problems with his brothers), but it seemed as though Matthew was simply the calmer of the two, and perfectly willing to stay in the shadows and avoid conflict (or being pulled into jumping on furniture, as Alfred looked about ready to do.

"Aren't you supposed to open the presents?" Arthur finally said when it seemed as though nothing was going anywhere, and Alfred grinned at him.

"Gettin' excited?"

"Bored is more like it," Arthur said, looking at his cup. He would have to get more tea soon.

Alfred shrugged and disappeared behind the tree to grab presents, emerging with numerous small boxes. Matthew had stood to help him sort them, passing them out to the recipients and making sure that nothing was dropped.

Arthur refilled his tea cup in the kitchen, and when he returned, he found that Francis had received cooking instruments and shirts, Matthew had received some type of body armor, and that Alfred had disappeared behind the tree once more. He was rather surprised the teen wasn't jumping ahead and opening his own presents, but he quickly rid his mind of the thought. He really didn't care either way.

Alfred appeared with more boxes, larger ones this time, as well as one that was thin and almost five feet long. Arthur watched as Matthew eyes lit up, and then the long present was handed to the teen's twin.

The body armor was explained when Matthew opened the box to reveal a hockey stick, and Arthur hummed softly to himself. Alfred had disappeared into the tree _again_, ignoring the growing pile of presents around his chair and cursing.

"Something wrong, Al?" Matthew had crawled out of the pile of presents before him (his face a vivid red after looking in a box that Francis had given him), and he followed his brother behind the tree.

"The box you brought is gone," Alfred muttered, and Arthur could hear the pine needles scatter on the floor as he searched through the branches. "And so is the other one."

"What's missing?" Arthur called, and Alfred peeked his head out around the tree sheepishly.

"Your presents."

Arthur leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "Did Jonathon take them?"

Alfred stiffened.

"Oh, please," Arthur grumbled. "He's a ghost, not a bloody fae!"

If anything, the statement made the Alfred more apprehensive, and his brother looked at him with a mixture of confusion and concern. Arthur had never mentioned the fae since they had died, it was true. But honestly-it had been a few months since then!

"I'll ask," Arthur said, and he set his cup on the floor and walked through the door to the right of the tree, into the library.

The ghost obviously wasn't in the mood to talk.

Jonathon was moping in the corner, leafing through old music books as though possessed (which made Arthur smile a bit, considering he was a ghost). Arthur walked up behind him, tilting his head to the side. "I'm guessing you took whatever they're looking for?" He fell silent, waiting for a response that the spectre refused to give, and then he sighed. "There's a box in the kitchen with your name on it, but I'm not handing it over until you tell me where-"

There was a hiss, and Arthur nodded his head, returning to his chair (and tea) in the other room.

"He put them in the attic," Arthur said. "Just finish opening your presents, then you can get them."

"But they're yours," Alfred pointed out quickly.

"I didn't expect anything in the beginning, I suppose I can wait a little longer." Arthur leaned back and sipped his tea, watching as Alfred finally sat down to open his presents.

The teen didn't seem bothered by the number of presents. There were less than ten, and he started in on the smaller ones, video games from his brother and Francis. Then he finally looked at the presents that had appeared the night before, and he grinned. He tore the smaller one open, and was delighted to find a bomber jacket inside (_"Because what you're wearing now wouldn't even be suitable in the spring"_), and then he looked towards the largest one. He slid his finger through a slit in the side, slipping the wrapping paper off quickly but gracefully, and then he gaped.

"Dude!" he shouted, turning the box to look at the image of a flat screen television on the front. "What the hell, Arthur? You realize how much this-"

"I put in a driveway and had a piano custom made, _for a ghost_," Arthur reminded. "Don't even _begin_ to talk to me about price."

But Arthur's statement didn't dull Alfred's excitement at all. He was already trying on the jacket, then taking time to look between the video games and the television, almost salivating over the thought of using them _together._

"Oh, your presents!" Alfred finally remembered, and he started for the stairs.

Then he stopped.

"You have an attic?"

"There's a hole in the ceiling of my closet," Arthur told him, and he nodded before disappearing upstairs, motioning for his brother to follow.

Arthur and Francis were left alone.

Arthur kept his temper reined in as the Frenchman _leered_ at him, whether lecherously or curiously, he didn't know (it could have been both).

"Alfred said that you paid for all of the presents yourself," Francis said, and Arthur nodded curtly, standing with the intent to put his teacup in the sink and grab the box for Jonathon from the table. "Yet you didn't expect anything in return? Surely you've already received some form of... _payment?_"

Arthur, being the gentleman he was, tried his hardest not to throttle the man for the implications. Instead, "I decided to buy myself a car for Christmas. It'll go nice with the driveway."

Francis stared at Arthur as he left the room, waited until he came back with a large box, and then he spoke once more. "You really are rich, aren't you?"

Arthur deposited the box in the library and left, listening to the ripping of paper as Jonathon tore into it.

"You really have to ask?" Arthur took his seat once more, and at that time the brothers came down the stairs with two boxes.

"You can get up in there?" Alfred asked immediately, and Arthur nodded.

"I'm not unfit. I think I can pull myself up into the attic if I need."

"But there's no ladder," Alfred pointed out. Arthur shrugged, and then the two boxes were placed before him.

Arthur hesitated before reaching for the closest box, opening it carefully and revealing a brown leather computer case, a brass plate across the front with his name engraved on it. He immediately recognized the brand, and while it wasn't top of the line, it was quality.

"Thank you," he said, and Matthew nodded his head.

Then Arthur was left to wonder at the other box, a long, mishapen lump that Alfred had obviously wrapped himself. It was roughly three feet long, and when he tore the paper (he would had opened it at a seam, except that he couldn't find one), he was staring at a black hard case, the perfect size and shape for his guitar.

Arthur stared at it, noted the brass plate that was at the end of the neck with his name (he was sure Alfred had gotten the idea from his brother). Opening it, he was met with a bag of picks, all sizes and colors, and he found that he was pleasantly surprised. He had told Alfred that there was nothing he could give him, but the teen had proven him wrong _twice_; first with the tree, and then with the case.

Alfred was more thoughtful than one would think.

"Thanks," he said, standing it on its hand and running his hands along the inside of the case. Velvet. He could only imagine how the red velvet would look alongside the light wood fretboard and the black body. Well, actually, he could take it in the next room and see it.

And so he did.

He opened the door to wrapping paper strewn along the floor, pieces of cardboards tossed around the room as though they had been through a shredder. Jonathon was seated at the piano, reading through the music notation, and Arthur found it just as well. That meant he could shut the top of the piano and use it as a table while he modeled the guitar in its new case.

Francis and Matthew were the only ones that dared to enter the room; Alfred had been put off by the sounds within long before.

"It _is_ a nice case, isn't it?" Arthur said conversationally to the ghost, and when he heard Matthew ask his brother who he was talking to, he realized that they couldn't see Jonathon.

Oh well.

"Fits nicely," Arthur observed, setting the guitar in the case. "The color's not bad either. What do you think?"

Jonathon simply shrugged and read the book that was perched on the music stand.

"So be it," Arthur said, shutting the guitar in the case and setting it against the far wall, across from the door. He didn't bother opening the lid to the piano as he left the room, and Jonathon hummed something.

"Where's Matthew?" Arthur asked, and Francis was the first to answer.

"He decided to make breakfast while Alfred prepared the ham for lunch," Francis said. Arthur nodded, and when the Frenchman's hand traced the small of his back, he stiffened. Then he fled to the bathroom, to finally take the shower he had been deprived of in the early morning hours.

The morning passed in the blink of an eye. Matthew had made pancakes and they had eaten at eight, the usual time that Arthur would have eaten had he gotten up at a reasonable hour. Alfred had then decided to test out his new jacket by dragging his brother outside (kicking and screaming) into the snow, where they threw snowball after snowball at one another and cursed, leaving the Frenchman and the Brit on the back porch to watch them. Every so often, Alfred would look over with a glare as Francis watched Arthur intently, and Matthew, finally catching on that Francis was trying to get a rise out of the Englishman, tried to distract him.

At least, Arthur was pretty sure that the distraction was intentional. Otherwise, he wasn't sure how someone's pants could fall down like that while he was running around.

Then he saw a victorious Alfred with his brother's belt, and he understood (somewhat. He was unaware that Alfred had been the one purposely distracting Francis, at the cost of his brother's privacy).

Francis was out in the snow, laughing and grabbing for Matthew, who was still trying to pull up his pants. And Alfred was then standing by the porch, complaining loudly about how bored he was now that Francis had successfully stolen his brother.

"Isn't that your fault?" Arthur asked bluntly. "You took his belt."

"That pervert wasn't supposed to come out!" Alfred complained. He crossed his arms and pouted.

"Then try to start up the fire in the pit or something." Arthur motioned towards a fire pit that Alfred had dug at the last minute, saying something about how awesome bon fires were. "You have the leftover wood from when the harvesters were here."

Which was true. While most of the wood had been taken off the property and sold, Alfred had kept quite a bit with the intention of burning it and having a party. He just hadn't thought it would be so soon.

"That actually sounds pretty good." Alfred nodded to himself, and then he wandered off in the direction of the pit in the ground.

Arthur leaned back against the outer wall of the house and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He had been unable to smoke much lately, with Alfred on his case when he was outside, and he refused to smoke inside, but it was nice to have that bit of nicotine in his blood to take off the edge (he had bought a case specifically for this week, hiding it in the library where Alfred would never dare to look for it). He lit it with a match, shaking the match out and tossing it in the snow where smoke rose up as it evaporated with the quickly declining heat.

As Arthur watched, Alfred tossed wood into the pit, trying to get the snow out so that the fire would catch. A few branches would go at a time, but it was nothing that amounted to much. It simply died in the end.

After some time, Alfred finally gave up and returned to the porch, giving Arthur a dirty look when he saw the cigarette. Arthur was half tempted to blow a cloud into his face like when they had first met, but Alfred was already inside and out of range.

"Let's have some lunch!" Alfred cheered, obviously headed straight for the oven (and the ham).

Arthur stared at his cigarette for a moment, then dropped it in the snow and returned inside.

At least the rest of the day had gone smoothly. Nothing had broken, no one had panicked or died, and he had remained untouched by any and all prowling hands (he couldn't say the same for Alfred; Matthew had tried to kill him when they had all returned inside).

And everything was right in the world.

Arthur pushed himself deeper into his pillow, finding the most comfortable position and preparing for sleep.

He was just about to drop off when there was a bloodcurdling scream from the floor, and then there was something on top of him, grabbing him. He choked as it grabbed his neck, and his arms flailed, trying to grab something and _get it off him_. His hand touched something, and he gripped it, intent on breaking it.

"Arthur!" Alfred was shouting, and then Arthur looked up. He had Alfred's wrist in his hand, and he promptly let go. He missed the crashes in the next room and the slamming of the door, and Alfred was wrapping his arms around his shoulders, squeezing as hard as he could and almost choking him.

"Al-Alfred!" Arthur shouted, and then he saw what had terrified the teen.

And it _pissed. him. off._

"God damn it, Alfred, that's Jonathon!" Arthur choked out, trying to shove the teen off. Jonathon looked caught between amusement and concern for his living friend, standing at the foot of the bed. Francis was watching the action on the bed with a smirk, having burst through the door, and Matthew was gaping at the spectre. "Get off!"

"I thought you said they didn't come in this room!" Alfred shouted. Arthur grunted, then manuevered his leg up between them, and pushed. Hard.

Alfred tumbled off the bed and below the ghost, and he looked up with an expression of horror.

_"I wanted to thank you for the books."_ Jonathon didn't give Alfred a thought as he spoke, and Arthur nodded, slowly climbing out of bed. He motioned for Francis and Matthew to leave, Francis finally realizing that there was something translucent in the air before Arthur shut the door and locked it.

"It's no problem, you know that," Arthur said as he made his way back to his bed. He crawled in and pulled the blankets up, watching Jonathon. Jonathon nodded his head, then he fell through the floor. Arthur didn't bother laying down to sleep. He looked over the side of the bed. Alfred was burrowed in his blankets, shaking violently as though he were in the freezing weather outside.

"He's gone, Alfred."

"You think he won't come up from the floor again?" Alfred hissed from his blankets, and Arthur groaned.

"Do you want me to get you a drink? Do you want a snack?" Alfred didn't answer him. "Fine. What did you do when you were scared as a kid?"

"I didn't get scared."

Arthur was not amused. "Then what did you do when you _weren't_ scared as a kid?"

"I slept with Mattie."

_God damn it._

Arthur glared at the lump on the floor, then he moved over. "Then get up here."

Alfred peeked up from the blankets and stared at Arthur with wide eyes. Arthur expected him to ask him if he was serious, if it was really okay, but Alfred was apparently too scared out of his wits to question it. He was in the bed in a second, curling up under the blankets and burying his head in the pillows. Arthur turned his back on him and stared at the wall, then finally shut his eyes and slept (even if it was a little hard with the shivering lump on the other side of the bed).


	28. Chapter 28

Waking up the next morning was difficult, but not because Arthur was trying to get fully awake before starting the day.

No, it was because there was something holding him down on the bed.

Arthur picked at the arm that had been flung across his body, pushing it away and grumbling when it fell right back down on top of him. Alfred was heavy, which was surprising considering how fit he was.

Arthur crawled forward on the bed and managed to get out from under the heavy limb, and he glared at Alfred's sleeping face for a moment before shaking his head and staggering towards the closet. He glanced at the clothes before him and picked randomly, not really intent on doing much during the day. He had considered going to look at vehicles, but he wasn't really interested in going that far.

He showered quickly (after remembering to lock the door) and entered the kitchen, surprised to find Francis already there. He remained silent, standing in the doorway and mentally calculating how quickly he could get a cup of tea and get out before the Frenchman would notice him.

His hopes were dashed, however, when Francis turned and saw him.

"I'm making crepes," the Frenchman announced. "Matthew said he wanted to make pancakes, but he's still sleeping and I got here first." He had turned back to the stove, and didn't look back as he spoke to Arthur. "I saw that your Alfred was still sleeping as well."

"Since when was he _my Alfred_?" Arthur scowled and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms before his chest.

"When you went to sleep with him." Francis looked all too happy when he cooked, but his voice held a dark undertone, one that did not sound at all amused.

"Don't try to turn it into something perverse," Arthur grumbled. "Damn kid wasn't going to bed unless someone held his hand, and his whining was becoming a pain in th-"

"If you don't mean what you say to him, and you don't take the poor boy seriously, then I suggest you start pushing him away," Francis cut him off. "I don't know you well enough to judge, but Matthew is... _concerned._ You may flaunt your money and buy what pleases you, but Alfred is unable to do that. You know that. Matthew would never say this to you, but he doesn't trust you." Francis looked back at him then, his eyes glinting with the light of the chandelier over the table. "You may have changed since we last saw you, but you are still as reserved as ever. I doubt you notice half of what Alfred says to you, so concerned with your own affairs, and the damned ghost in the library."

"Then maybe Matthew should consider who was here first," Arthur snapped. "_That ghost_ has been here far longer than me, and as such, far longer than Alfred. If he has such a problem with it, then maybe he should pack up and head home. He can take Alfred with him if he wishes. I've no problem with it."

From the frustrated sound that came from Francis's throat, that was the wrong answer.

"Are you completely blind to the boy's feelings?" Francis removed a pan from the burner and looked back with an exasperated sigh. "Alfred looks smitten! And your attitude is exactly why Matthew doesn't like it!"

"Then Matthew is obviously the smarter twin," Arthur said.

"You act like none of this concerns you!"

"And it doesn't." Arthur narrowed his eyes at the Frenchman. "It's Alfred's problem, not mine. I've never encouraged him, and I've neve-"

"Letting him crawl into bed with you _wasn't_ encouraging him?" Francis pressed. He looked disgusted by the thought.

Arthur seethed. The Frenchman obviously _wasn't_ going to listen to a word he said, and he was about to tell him exactly what he thought of that when he heard running.

"There's no shampoo!" Alfred said loudly when he burst into the kitchen, water dripping out of his hair and his cheeks slightly red. He clothes hung loosely on his body, and he looked between Francis and Arthur, oblivious to the confrontation and intense atmosphere that he had just stumbled into.

"Then dry your hair and buy some more," Arthur told him. "You need, what? Ten dollars? Twenty?"

"What?" Alfred looked confused, but Arthur had already left the kitchen to dig through his desk.

"I need something at the store as well," Francis said, turning back to the stove and hurrying to finish the food. "We'll eat and then go together. Does that sound right?"

Alfred looked overjoyed, as he had likely just remembered the truck outside. Arthur was shoving dollar bills at him at the same time, and his expression changed. He looked slightly conflicted. Matthew chose that time to appear, and he hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen.

"Do you need anything?" Francis asked quickly, and Matthew shook his head. "Then we'll eat now."

Breakfast seemed to take forever. Arthur was completely silent, watching as Matthew and Alfred bickered back and forth while Francis jumped in every so often to say something completely irrelevant to the conversation. Every word they said sounded as if it was slow motion, and he was almost tempted to tell them to hurry the conversation, because the poorly executed "effects" were making his head throb. Then they were cleaning up, dropping plates and silverware into the sink, and Alfred and Francis were waving goodbye to brother and acquaintance.

Arthur didn't wait for them to leave before he moved to the living room, turning on the television and dropping into the couch that Alfred had moved back the day before. Matthew followed him in and took one of the unoccupied chairs, focusing his attention on the television and doing his best to avoid Arthur's gaze.

The two sat like that for some time, watching some news broadcast about the weather and global warming, and Arthur finally broke the silence.

"Was Alfred good in school?"

Matthew swiveled his head and looked confused. It obviously wasn't a question he had ever expected to hear.

"School?"

"Yes." Arthur changed the channel impatiently, staring blindly at the screen. "Did he ever want to continue school, go on to college, anything?"

Matthew hesitated, obviously wondering exactly what Arthur was playing at. But Arthur was being as sincere as he could be, even if it was with a scowl. "He thought about it," Matthew finally muttered. "But, well, it's hard putting twins through college, so he decided to just get a job."

"Oh." Arthur concentrated on the remote in his hand, not pressing the issue. Matthew sat silently, watching him warily and then venturing a question about the weather.

"Supposed to snow again tomorrow," Arthur said, and Matthew shivered. "And I take it you're staying for New Year's?"

Matthew swallowed. It was almost as though Arthur was testing him, measuring his answer.

"Al said we should," he finally responded, and Arthur groaned. Matthew suddenly felt uneasy, as though he were intruding in the house, and he began to think about ways to get out of New Year's, hopefully with Alfred. From the way Arthur had groaned, it had sounded like they weren't welcome there any longer.

"I should have had Alfred get drinks," Arthur grumbled. "Nothing in the house."

"You could try his cellphone," Matthew offered, and Arthur stared at him.

"He has a cellphone?" he started, but it was too late to call. They could both hear the truck returning, and neither was about to turn them around for some drinks.

"Hey Al!" Matt started when his twin appeared in the archway between the kitchen and living room, but Alfred immediately disappeared into the other room on his way to the bathroom. His face was a bright red, and Arthur watched him leave with something resembling concern.

Francis was still in the kitchen, not bothering to walk to the living room, and Matthew looked at Arthur carefully. Arthur had turned his attention back to the television, resting his elbow on the arm of the couch and supporting his chin with his fist. Matthew swallowed, and stood up from his chair.

"Al wanted to be a cop," Matthew muttered. "Dad told him he was better off going into a field that would pay, like science." Arthur's eyes darted back towards Matthew, watching him carefully. "Al told him that he'd do what he wanted, so Dad wouldn't give him any money and instead paid for me to go to college. Then Al left."

Matthew walked to the kitchen and Arthur stared at the television. He tried to ignore the sounds coming from the kitchen (it sounded like the Frenchman was molesting Matthew), and he chewed on his lower lip.

He hadn't expected _that._

Apparently, Christmas hadn't been the end of the "fun." Francis had insisted on seeing the grounds (despite Matthew's and Arthur's protests) and Alfred had joined in, saying that he wanted to see all of the old trails that had been made through the forest (he didn't mention that he had been on a few of them in the past, before the fae had been killed).

So Arthur was entrusted with guiding them safely around the property, showing them the streams and ditches that he had seen almost daily for the last three years. He was actually surprised by his new perception of the outdoors.

The snow was bright even under the shade of the trees, and he found himself enjoying the walk, even with the chill of the winter air. He tightened his jacket as he walked, his leather gloves protecting his hands from the biting wind that would occasionally rush through the trees and blow back his hair (and at those times he almost wished for a hat, but he had never worn one before and he wasn't about to start now).

Alfred had jumped right into the walk, dragging his brother ahead a dozen yards and plastering him with snow. Of course, Matthew wasn't one to be taken lightly. He was fighting back, often giving more than he was taking. Arthur always _had_ thought he was polite; even in snow ball fights, he was giving his rival more than he received.

"Don't watch too intently," Francis said from behind him, and Arthur cast a glare at him before moving on. "What are you planning on doing, Arthur? Really?"

"You think I have plans for everything?" Arthur snorted. "Life isn't that simple."

"But you have wants, and needs," Francis told him. "What do you want to have, when everything is over and done with? Your solitude? Alfred?" Francis paused to let it sink in. "You have to start thinking about it, or you're going to lose him. Or hurt him. Whatever comes first."

Arthur shoved his fists in his pockets, flexing his fingers thoughtfully. "It's his own bleeding fault if he gets hurt," he retorted, but Francis simply smiled.

"Hey, Artie!" Alfred shouted, and Arthur turned. A lump of snow was aimed towards his face, and he quickly yanked his hand from his pocket and held it up. The snow hit his glove, disintegrating and falling to the ground upon impact. His face was saved, but his eyes were suddenly cold. "Hey, you okay?" Alfred shouted. Arthur didn't move, and Alfred took a few steps forward. "I mean, y'know, sorry 'bout that. I just thought it'd be fun and-" Alfred cut off when Arthur took a step forward. As he moved, he ducked slightly and grabbed a fistful of snow in one hand. Alfred was about to laugh at the thought of _Arthur_ getting into a snowball fight, then he realized something.

Arthur was serious.

And that snowball looked packed pretty tightly.

Alfred wasn't prepared for the snowball that hit him in the jaw, knocking him back a step and making him stare in disbelief. Arthur was already chucking another one, and he remembered, _oh shit, he's a fighter, isn't he?_

Then Alfred was running.

"Take cover!" he bellowed, tackling Matthew (who was making his way up the trail after the other three). There were colorful curses coming from the other brother's mouth as Alfred rolled him behind a large rock, peeking out around it to see if Arthur was still there. The only thing he saw was Francis, who looked confused as hell by the disappearance of the Brit. Francis saw him watching and shrugged, obviously wishing he could be of some help.

"What the fuck?" Matthew demanded, and Alfred pressed his finger to his lips.

"Arthur's out there," he said seriously, and Matthew gaped at him.

"You're scared of Arthur?"

"He throws hard." Alfred pointed at his chin, where a red mark was beginning to take up half of his face. "I think he said he used to be in a gang."

"And you're living with him?" Matthew hissed.

"He's fun." Alfred peeked around the rock, then jerked himself back as a snowball hit the side. He looked back towards Matthew. "Did you see where that came from?"

Matthew shook his head, then a snowball hit Alfred's head. He jumped up, but there was no one there.

Francis was watching in disbelief as Alfred ducked back down, grabbing Matthew's head and pulling him into a two-person huddle.

"Okay, we gotta find 'im and take 'im out," Alfred said, his breathing heavy with apprehension. He looked around nervously, then fell face-first into the snow when a ball of snow the size of a rock hit the top of his head. Of course, he wasn't the only one that was hit; said snowball was large, and the brothers had had their foreheads pressed together. Matthew was livid, and trying to get the snow out of his jacket and shirt, away from his skin.

Alfred panicked. He grabbed a handful of snow and quickly pressed it into a ball, trying to control his breathing. He looked up, and then an expression of shock passed over his face, followed by a snowball.

Arthur was...

_No wonder Francis couldn't stop laughing, the jackass._

_Arthur was on the other side of the rock, lobbing snowballs overhead._

"A-ha!" Alfred said triumphantly. He stood and held his arm back, ready to chuck it at the Brit, but Arthur had apparently realized what was going on. He had skirted around the rock as Alfred moved to toss the ball on the other side, and he threw his own snowball towards the American. Alfred dropped his, and then Arthur was running, cutting through the trees and looking for somewhere to hide. When Alfred brushed the snow out of his eyes, he saw that Matthew was gone as well, in pursuit of the Brit.

"Damn," Alfred said, and then Francis strolled past, chuckling loudly. Alfred stared at him for a moment, then realized that _his brother_ was chasing _Arthur_. And if Matthew caught him, he was probably gonna kill him. Alfred shot past the still-chuckling Francis in pursuit of the two, hoping that he wasn't too late.

Apparently he was. Matthew was leaning against a tree and panting, staring at a dark lump in the snow. When he was closer, Alfred realized that the lump was _Arthur_, and that he was face-down in the snow.

"H-hey!" Alfred shouted as he ran towards the man, fear filling his chest.

"Belt up," Arthur said when Alfred reached him, and he looked up. His face was a vivid red, and he was breathing heavily. "Just need a break."

Alfred stared at the Brit and sighed. "I guess we're not going to finish that walk?"

Arthur simply groaned.


	29. Chapter 29

Arthur was fully aware of his limitations, and he was also aware of the fact that he had likely passed all of them in that sprint through the woods.

He was tired, cold, cramped, and exhausted, and the first thing he did upon returning home was steal the shower before anyone could get into the bathroom. As he let the hot water wash over him, he thought about how the rest of the week was going to fare. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea or not that he had to spend the week with two additional people, but it seemed to be turning out okay (even if the frog _was_ a pain in the ass).

Arthur stepped out of the shower and dressed slowly, running a hand through his hair quickly instead of brushing it. He folded his used towel and dropped it into the hamper, then opened the door and returned to the living room. Francis moved past him in the direction of the bathroom, and Arthur stared at the living room's occupants.

Matthew had fallen into the couch, slouching against the arm and staring at the television. Alfred had done the same in one of the chairs, and Arthur could see the resemblance as twins even better, now that they were both quiet from the running around. Their faces were flushed red, their lips parted slightly as they breathed through their mouths. Their hair was messy from the action, and even their eyes seemed to have the same weary amusement reflected in them.

Alfred looked up from his chair and waved lazily. "C'mon, sit down," he called. His voice was low, and he grinned. "Gonna watch a movie. Got popcorn an' everything."

Alfred motioned to the coffee table before the television, and Arthur eyed the large bowls suspiciously.

"I didn't know we had popcorn."

"Bought it."

"Or bowls."

"Bought those too."

Arthur sat done in the remaining empty chair, half tempted to run to the kitchen to make some tea. "And what are you watching?"

"Die Hard." Alfred looked impatiently at Matthew, but the twin ignored him. Matthew was watching the bathroom door, obviously waiting for Francis to return before he started the movie with the remote that was in his hand.

There was a tense silence as Alfred drummed his fingers on the edge of his chair. Francis finally returned, and Matthew pressed the play button. Then Alfred seemed to remember something, and ran around to shut off all of the lights.

Arthur wondered if Alfred had honestly thought he would like it. The explosions and violence weren't really all that enjoyable, and the lack of storyline quickly had him looking around for something to do. After a few minutes, he decided to watch Alfred.

Alfred was obviously _very_ into the movie. He would jump in his chair, clench his fists, and lean forward in his chair, acting almost as though he were in the movie, watching with excitement and, perhaps, envy. The light from the television shone on his face, and Arthur had to turn away.

Things couldn't continue the way they were going.

He was slowly becoming aware of the teen's affections, and it wasn't a comfortable feeling. It felt wrong. He was using the American. He should have pushed him away long ago, before Alfred became attached.

Arthur forced himself to look back at the television. The movie was terrible, but he couldn't keep looking at Alfred.

He couldn't.

The week passed relatively peacefully. There had been another snowball fight between the brothers, and that time Arthur had sat back to watch as Francis and Matthew teamed up on Alfred, not bothering to hide and strike but instead running straight at him. And then they had returned inside to watch television, and Arthur had been surprised at the sudden change in Matthew. He was a monster when he was watching hockey, and he had been concerned for the well-being of his television by the second period.

Of course, Matthew redeemed himself during breakfast. He had insisted on cooking pancakes every morning, so Arthur was saved from having to eat the sausages that Alfred was fond of. And Francis even made dinner, so they only had burgers once during the week.

Of course, Arthur had made sure to take a trip to town early in the week to make sure that he had enough alcohol. He had stocked it in the closet by the door, making sure that whenever he had something to drink it was replaced. And Francis seemed rather delighted by the realization that Arthur had stocked up on alcohol, because apparently they were going to be having a huge party for New Year's.

_Huh._

"Just light the damn thing," Arthur complained loudly. They were gathered around the fire pit outside, situated in lawn chairs that had been found in the attic. Alfred was _in_ the pit, trying to get kindling started so that they could sit back and watch the fire into the night, only leaving it to see some ball dropping in New York on the television.

"It's a bit... wet," Alfred said, and Arthur stood.

"Get out," Arthur said, and he stood above the pit, waiting for Alfred to get out of the way.

"You think you can light it?" Alfred asked when he crawled out, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Arthur ignored him and slid down into the pit, snatching the lighter from Alfred's fingers as he did. He grumbled under his breath as he knelt beside the large logs from the driveway, looking at the scraps of paper and bark below them. It wasn't the best set-up, especially on snow, and he wondered why Alfred had ever thought it would work.

He wriggled his fingers from his gloves and reached in between the logs, touching his fingers to the snow within. It quickly chilled his fingers and he grimaced, then swallowed. His fingers pulsed slightly, and the feeling of cold left him. The snow receded slowly, and, after he felt his fingers pulse again, he pressed them into the dirt.

The fire sprang up, slowly but surely, and he smiled softly. The loss of the fae may have taken almost all that he had, but he still had his own natural talent. He pulled his hand away as the fire grew, and he pulled himself out of the pit. Alfred cheered as Arthur returned to his chair (and beer), and then Alfred was sitting in front of the fire with a hotdog on a stick.

Arthur didn't want to know. Especially when Matthew muttered something and joined him, motioning for the other two to join them. Arthur simply raised his beer to his lips and drank, ignoring the motions from the brothers.

It appeared as though the beer loosened his lips quite a bit as time went on, and the sky darkened overhead. Alfred had ocasionally wandered back from the fire to pull him into a conversation, asking about how he had celebrated New Year's in the past (_"booze an' guitars"_), what he had thought about the snow ball fight (_"jus' like ol' times, chasin' blokes down th' street"_), and if he was excited for the ball drop (_"hah! Already have!"_)

Then Alfred had left him, fleeing to keep his sanity intact, but then returning with Matthew and Francis. The fire was suddenly dead, and Alfred was dragging him inside to watch the festivities on the tv. Arthur didn't bother fighting it. The world spun around him, and he stared at the television when Alfred set him in a chair and began to flip through channels.

"This is the best thing about New Year's," Alfred told him, and Arthur grunted. "See, there's this huge party in New York, and everyone goes there to see the ball drop and the new year to come!"

"Right," Arthur said, not really paying attention. He let Alfred continue to talk, the words flowing over him and merging together into senseless babble. He let it go, intent on simply watching the ball drop and then letting whatever happen. He didn't really care. He was pissed from all the alcohol (and he was sure that the two underage teens were at least a little buzzed), and he was tempted to go hunt for more.

Then the people around him were counting down, and his eyes locked onto the television, listening to the "_Two!_" that Alfred shouted by his ear, and then the television was sparkles and lights, and there were people cheering (and Alfred was shouting in his ear, the git).

There was a lot of nonsense about the new year, and soon Arthur realized that Francis and Matthew had disappeared. Alfred was talking to him, telling him that he should go up to bed.

"I'll sleep later," Arthur told him, waving him away. "Go t' bed."

Alfred shrugged and left him. Arthur settled deeper into his chair and sighed, letting the cheering on the television fill his senses. He really didn't feel like doing anything, and he just sat there, letting time pass.

Something was clicking.

Arthur groaned and turned off the television. The world still spun around him, and he slowly stood.

"Not tonight, Jonathon," he grumbled as he walked into the library. The spectre was sitting at the piano, watching him silently, and then his eyes found a small tear in the wallpaper. "You didn' have t' take whatever out on the wall," he grumbled, and he sighed, touching the tear with his fingers. "Now I'll have t' replace it."

Arthur wasn't sure why he did it, but he found himself pulling at the paper, tearing it down and yanking it away from the wall. He was sobered almost instantly, as a large bright blue circle was drawn on the wall, runes following the lines and celtic symbols carved intricately into the wood and plaster. He swallowed and let his free hand go near the carving, but when the blue pulsed like a heartbeat, he yanked his hand back.

He dropped the torn wallpaper and stepped back, his head clear and his heart racing. He didn't know what it was. He didn't like that fact. He stumbled as he left the room, locking the door and taking quick steps to his desk. He dug through the drawers, searching for the card that Mathias had left him, then he found it and was dialing.

"Yes?"

Arthur hesitated. He had told himself so long ago that he didn't need to call the man, that he shouldn't take so much from him.

But he felt afraid, and paranoid, as though the shadows in the corners of the house were watching him, waiting for him to let his guard down, waiting to _take him._

"Arthur?"

"There are runes under the wallpaper in the library," Arthur blurted. "Carved, blue. There are celtic marks, and-"

"They're carved?" Eirik pressed, and Arthur thought he could hear something in the other's voice, something apprehensive.

"Yes. _Under_ the wallpaper. Eirik, do you have any idea what it is?"

There was silence, and Arthur swallowed, trying to still his trembling body. Eirik didn't answer immediately, and he imagined the man deep in thought, consulting the tomes he was sure he possessed.

"I don't know how we missed that," Eirik finally muttered. "They're in the walls, Arthur." He paused. "You can't save the house."

Arthur lowered his head and felt the warmth drain from his body.

"I can't?"

"They're in the walls, but they haven't left them," Eirik said, and Arthur understood.

He understood exactly what Eirik was telling him.

And so he burned the house.

Moving into Alfred's old apartment was a pain in the ass. Mathias was always underfoot, literally and figuratively, and he was interested in the new toys that Arthur had. Namely, the shiny new black SUV outside.

The piano had been moved into storage with the furniture. The televisions had been moved into the storage room in Alfred's apartment, and the books that Arthur had salvaged from the shelves were packed away safely in plastic totes, awaiting the time when they would be repaired and read.

Alfred and Arthur had watched the house burn once everything had been moved. The local fire departments had burned it, _razed it_, after some convincing from Arthur. They needed the training; he needed to demolish a house. It seemed to be a fair trade.

They had leaned against the hood of Arthur's vehicle, Alfred watching the home that Arthur had lived in burn; Arthur was already planning what he would do with the property, how much it would take to rebuild, to buy. Neither spoke. Matthew and Francis had left weeks before, blissfully unaware of the coming destruction. Arthur had leaned back against the SUV and drank, constantly finding more alcohol in the vehicle while Alfred drank coke and other carbonated drinks.

"Have you thought of college?" Arthur would ask, and Alfred would shrug, dismiss the question and change the topic.

But Arthur could see the unspoken thoughts, reflected in the clear blue eyes that watched the men moving around the house with hoses and axes. He could see the envy that had been present during the movie, the apprehension, the _regret._

_He couldn't let things continue the way they were going._

"Go to college."

Alfred had looked at him then, confused and baffled by the sudden order. "Huh?"

"You're not a fucking maid, Alfred," Arthur growled as he drank. "Go to college. Do something with your life. Train to do something you want to do. I don't give a fuck what your father told you to do or not to do; _I'm_ telling you to go to college."

And just like that, Arthur had pushed him away. He had paid, _insisted_ on paying. He had sent him away in the spring, and he had given him the SUV. He had done everything he could. But he hadn't picked up the phone.

And he hadn't seen Alfred for two years.


	30. Chapter 30

Arthur hadn't thought about what it would be like in the days leading to Alfred's departure. He hadn't thought about how silent the new house would be (well, he _had,_ but he had always thought that it would be a nice change). He hadn't thought about how he would wake up in the morning and _not_ find the cup of tea waiting on the table.

He hadn't thought about anything. The car, he had said, was a gift; a gift to commemerate his leaving, and to reward his tolerance (though he refused to come out and say that). Alfred had argued and tried to push the keys back into his hands, but he had insisted, and had told him that it was better to have in an emergency.

Alfred had finally taken it, and then he had _looked._ He had taken in the sight of something that was all his, something that had been given, no strings attached, something that was a gift from someone he cared about. He could be proud when he drove it, knowing that it came from Arthur, and as he had stared at it, he had unconsciously fisted the hem of his jacket in his empty hand.

Arthur had ignored his hands, simply smiling and bidding him adieu. Alfred had thanked him again (the only thing he had been doing since Arthur had pushed his admittance), and then he had left, after an awkward moment where Alfred had to decide whether to hug the older man or shake his hand (he went for the hand shake).

And Arthur had finally returned to his house. No furniture but the bed and piano, still smelling of freshly cut wood, the walls bare and without paint or wallpaper. It was a shell, a project that he would work on himself, to the sound of Jonathon's piano (the ghost had haunted Alfred's storage room during the months of construction, and the poor teen had had a meltdown almost daily). He had it in his head to paint the house from top to bottom, pick out carpets and tile, and completely customize the house to his wishes.

But then it had hit him; Alfred was gone. The only thing he had was Jonathon. He had pushed away the only living person that had meant something to him, and deep down, it hurt.

But Arthur was selfish. He had already decided to send Alfred away, to enroll him in a school states away, where he could gain an education and make something of himself. He wanted Alfred to succeed. It was his selfishness that had both attracted and driven him away.

The house was finished slowly. Three bedrooms, two baths, a library and a living room attached to a kitchen, all had to be finished. They had moved the piano into the new library and Jonathon had been overjoyed. Shelves had been made and books had been set in place, his bed had been moved upstairs, and there was a backyard, one space already surrounded by black steel fencing to accomodate a garden.

Everyday, Arthur had fought the loneliness, busying himself for months to finish. But despite his feelings, he couldn't pick up the phone when Alfred called. It took him two months to finish the interiors (with a lot of mistakes, and eventually professional help), the calls still came, even without his answers. He felt guilty, knew he had to do something. If he answered, he didn't know what he would say to Alfred. He had to keep Alfred away.

So when he read through the paper one morning, he found a new distraction. It was something that would take up his time, and even put a little extra money in his already deep pockets (after the initial investment).

Arthur's business venture was, of course, difficult. He really had no experience in business. His only likable quality was his fortune, which, after all of his careless spending, was beginning to diminish (which meant he needed to be careful). But somehow, things began to work. He hired employees, bought and read books, listened to advisors. And then found a little success.

His bookstore wasn't the most successful place, but it was entertaining. He rather enjoyed stocking the shelves and ordering supplies. And the customers that stumbled in and wandered around struck up interesting conversations. Eventually even the cafe in the back became popular, and then more and more people were there, sitting between the aisles, at the tiny tables in the cafe, searching the shelves.

It helped him get his mind off the empty house. And he even found an ally in the form of a German man that he had kicked out, after he had tried to make a fort out of the books in the fiction section. Apparently he had only followed along to harass his younger brother, or something to that effect. He had found out when they met at the bar, and then they had been joined by Mathias, who insisted on taking a break to join them.

Hangovers and deliveries became commonplace, squeezed in between work and sleep. Some would find the lifestyle exhausting; Arthur found it exciting.

"Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur didn't look up from the boxes in the back room. He slit them open quickly, checking the titles and comparing them with the content list that had been taped to the outside of the box. "Megan? Something wrong?"

"There's someone asking about you out front," the brunette said, and from the sounds she was making, he imagined that she was playing with her hair. It was a habit he'd never been able to wean her off of. "Some blond guy with glasses."

Arthur gave a start. He looked over his shoulder at the girl, and saw that she was, indeed, twirling her hair obnoxiously around her fingers, shifting her weight from side to side.

"I'll be right out," he told her, and she nodded once before flouncing off. Arthur tucked the content list into the box and shoved it under a table, looking around quickly before tugging at his collar. He couldn't understand why Alfred would visit; he had to still be in the spring semester. It was too early to leave. He hit the lightswitch and clicked the door shut behind him, walking back to the front of the store.

He had to dodge around old wooden shelves laden with new and used books alike, the used ones set in the back of the store while the new titles filled the front. People ignored him as he passed, some girls settled on the carpet and looking through fashion magazines by the side wall. There were also children playing in a play room, their parents looking around at the books and trying to choose something.

He reached the front doors, the large glass windows brightening the front of the store, and he saw that no one was there. He looked towards the register, behind which Megan was perched on a chair, and she pointed with one of her finely manicured nails. He swiveled his head towards the sports section, and there, looking though one of the paperbacks, was Matthew.

Arthur blinked. He couldn't understand why Matthew would feel the need to hunt him down, but he supposed that if he was anything like his brother, then he could be completely unexpected.

"Matthew," Arthur greeted, and Matthew looked up from the book. He hastily shut it and reached out a hand to meet the one that Arthur offered, shaking it quickly.

"Long time no see," Matthew said, and Arthur nodded. The two were silent for a moment, and Matthew sighed. "So... You heard from Al?"

Arthur shook his head slowly. "It's been a couple years," he admitted.

"Oh." Matthew looked around. "Nice place."

"I like it." Arthur really didn't know what to say to him. It was awkward, talking to someone that he had only met twice, a couple years after they had last met.

"Well..." Matthew swallowed, crossing his arms. "Al said you're paying for everything."

"It's the least I can do."

Another uncomfortable silence. Neither knew what to say. Arthur shifted his weight, and Matthew took a breath.

"Al talked to our Dad," Matthew finally said. "He hadn't talked to him, since he... well, y'know."

"How is your father?" Arthur asked. He didn't really know if it was the right thing to say, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

"He's a bit mad. He doesn't like the idea that Al's getting so much from you."

"He can come straight to me if he has a problem," Arthur said. "I'm thirsty. You want a drink?" Arthur was already leading him out back, straight for the cafe. Matthew looked nervously at the tiny wooden tables and the man that waited behind the counter, but Arthur walked straight over and promptly called for tea. "And whatever he wants," he added. Matthew almost stumbled over his words as he asked for a coffee, but Arthur ignored it. He had instead moved to one of the tables, Matthew following behind.

The two were silent again, waiting for their drinks to come. Matthew looked towards the rest of the store, while Arthur concentrated on a spot on the table.

"Why'd you send him to college?" Matthew finally asked.

"Why wouldn't I?" Arthur didn't have to think hard about the answer. "He was wasting away here."

"So you sent him three states away?"

"Better establishment."

"Pick the most expensive place, and decide it's the best?" Matthew guessed.

"I'm not as stupid as you seem to think I am," Arthur grumbled.

"I guess you're trying to make him someone you can talk to, on your own level?" Matthew paused when the drinks were placed on their table, then he continued. "I know he's not as... _observant_ as most people, but you don't have to-"

"You make it sound like I look at him as less than human," Arthur muttered.

"Just because you had all of the education and-"

"I want to see him make something of himself," Arthur interrupted. "He still has a chance to do something like that, so why shouldn't I help him?" Arthur could understand Matthew skepticism. Almost one hundred thousand dollars, for someone he had called a "maid." Anyone would think that there were strings attached. Matthew still looked doubtful, and he groaned. "I have a GED," he admitted, and Matthew blinked. "I never went to the equivalent of your high schools. I never went to college. I wish I had, yes, but it was never in the plan for me. I just got lucky for having a family that was willing to pay me to get rid of me. I wish I had finished school, I'll admit it. I was a stupid child, and took off in the other direction as soon as I was given the chance." Arthur took a breath. "I don't want Alfred to regret not being able to go. He deserves to go, and I sent him. That's all there is to it."

Matthew watched him, but refused to indicate whether he believe him or not. He simply drank his coffee, leaving Arthur to wonder what had really brought him there. It was obvious he wasn't there about the money; he should have known about it long ago, and confronted him at that time if he had.

"So... That was because you were in a gang, right?"

Arthur nodded, and Matthew averted his eyes.

"Oh." Matthew drank more of his coffee, refusing to look at the Brit. "So, uh... How's your... _ghost, _problem?"

Arthur shrugged. "Woke up one day and Jonathon was gone. All I can think is that he left."

"Right." Matthew shook his left leg impatiently, chewing on his lip at the same time. "This is a nice place," he said abruptly, and he looked over at Arthur. Arthur was nodding slowly, looking around at the old shelves and carpets.

"Yes," he agreed, and he nodded to himself. "Yes it is."

And when he saw Arthur's enchanted expression, Matthew thought he finally understood his brother.

At least a little bit.


	31. Chapter 31

Arthur couldn't count how many times Matthew had visited. It had become part of his life; Matthew would show up, they would sit in the cafe and eat, drink, and try to make small talk. Neither was very good at it; they didn't know what to say, didn't really know what the other was thinking, yet somehow there was a feeling of disappointment when Matthew finally left, returning to his internship at a local hospital (Matthew had blurted that out once, as well as saying that Francis was working in a five-star restaurant in a neighboring city).

The short conversations were mostly made of random babbling, but there were times when there was something to be learned. Alfred had been doing well the last time Matthew had talked to him, but he hadn't called for a few months, something that had worried his brother. Matthew had attempted to go to the college to visit, but first his truck had broken down, then he had fractured his wrist in a hockey match.

Arthur had offered to send him with his car (a gift to himself, after a successful year of business), but Matthew had quickly turned down the offer. Arthur had a terrible suspicion that he was hiding something, but he couldn't bring himself to press the issue. Deep down, there was a part of him that feared what that secret could be.

Eventually, Matthew had brought Francis in. Arthur had been less than thrilled by the man's appearance, but he had been fair. He hadn't spoken against him, he hadn't tried to kill him; he'd been downright hospitable to the man. Of course, Arthur had quickly realized that being in Francis's presence was tiring beyond belief, and so those meetings were moved to the familiar bar run by the Dane, and eventually it was the group of five (because Matthew had to be there to control Francis, Gilbert had to be there because there was alcohol, and Mathias just wanted to have some fun) that was meeting on an almost weekly basis, drinking, talking, and just getting away from stress. Francis had been trying to work his way up as head chef in the restaurant, only to be met with resistance; Matthew was still trying to get a firm hold on his duties at the hospital, and he was trying to get more people to notice his efforts; Gilbert was simply bored, tired after a long day of work at one of the two police head quarters (they had both county and city stations within five miles of each other, something that Arthur had never been able to figure out); and Mathias simply wanted get away from the people that always demanded drinks from him, even if it _was_ his job.

And after all was said and done, Arthur would return home, travel down the wooded drive (he had talked to the contractor before, and they had found a way to order trees to line the dirt road), and he would park his car under the carport that was attached to the side of the house. He would walk into the house, toss his keys on the granite counter-tops, and then he would wander up the stairs and collapse into the bed.

The house was always silent, ever since Jonathon had left. The spectre had managed to teach him how to play simple tunes on the piano, tunes that were light and fast or somber and slow, and the notes that he could tune his guitar by. He would let himself fall asleep, only to wake seven hours later to make tea and scones (or cereal if he was in a hurry), and then he would drive back into the town and return to his little bookstore to greet the coming day and customers.

Megan was one of his first employees. She had looked longingly into the window of the store the first time he had seen her, drenched from the unexpected rainfall. He had invited her in, gotten her a cup of coffee, and had listened. She had runaway from home, finally broken down by her father's intolerance of all things not "normal." His persecutions against her friends, his hatred of the ideals and emotions she had, everything that she had thought dear was torn apart by his harsh words.

Arthur had taken pity on her, fashioned one of the upstairs storage rooms into a temporary apartment, and gave her a job. She had thrived, her mood lightening with every passing day, until she was self sufficient, and thanking him for his time and care. She had moved out, into the house with those friends, and she had kept coming back for work, enchanted by the peaceful atmosphere and the gruff-yet-kind Mr. Kirkland. She did _love_ to talk, and she constantly asked about how he was feeling, whether he had heard this band's newest song, or seen that new movie. His answers were almost always "no," and she would tell him how much fun they were, and how she had gone with her friends (and her _boyfriend_, she couldn't say enough about him) and she thought that Mr. Kirkland should join them next time (he was only a few years older, after all. He needed to have some fun!).

Arthur had come to think of Megan as a sort of little sister. When at work, he would try to discretely nudge her in the right direction, from lifestyle choices ("I think it might be a little dangerous; take a friend?") to suggesting reasonable places for her to spend her time ("I know Haver's is supposed to have good alcohol, but the neighborhood's a bit shady. Why not try the pub on Main Street? I know the owner, good place!").

And now, Arthur was looking through his records intently. He had been balancing the transactions, and there were a few pennies unaccounted for. He was intent on finding them before anything else, not even looking up when Megan tapped on the window and pushed open the door to his office.

"Mr. Kirkland, your friend's back," she said, and he nodded his head.

"I'm balancing these, I'll be out in a moment," he told her. "Tell him I'm just missing a few pennies."

Megan nodded and disappeared while Arthur leafed back through a few pages, finding the discrepancy. He nodded triumphantly and jotted it down, glancing over his work quickly to make sure that there were no other mistakes. Content with his work, he stood and stretched his arms above his head, then fixed the collar of his shirt and left the room. He locked the door behind him after shutting off the lights, then made his way down the stairs and towards the front of the store.

Megan, ever vigilant, was checking out customers at her register, talking rather animatedly with them. Matthew wasn't by the door as he usually was, and Arthur immediately looked towards the sports section. He waited a moment, and when the customers were sent on their way, he motioned to Megan.

"Where is he?"

Megan looked around quickly and shrugged, leaving Arthur to figure it out on his own. He was silent for a moment, then figured that Matthew had probably gone to the back. He slipped between the sports and outdoor living sections, making his way to the café, when something dark caught his eye.

Someone was reading a book in the military history section. Arthur stopped walking, staring at the back of the man's old jacket. His stature was much like Alfred's, and Arthur blinked. The golden-blond hair was slightly longer, his frame slightly taller. When the man shifted in place, he could see the same out-of-control cowlick, and the familiar wire glasses. From the side, he could see the vivid blue irises (like sapphires, really), half lidded as he read through the pages, his lips moving silently with the words.

It looked just like Alfred. Had to be Alfred. And when the man's head turned, and he looked up, the tension that had been on his face disappeared.

"Arthur!"

Arthur didn't say anything as Alfred approached him, shutting the book in his hand. "It's been a while!" Alfred continued. "I stopped by your house, but you weren't home. Then Mathias said you had a store, and I had to come check it out!" He nodded as he talked, and Arthur had more time to look at him. He looked more mature. His childish face had sharpened into something more… _powerful,_ almost _intimidating._ He held himself differently, and Arthur wondered if maybe it was confidence and self-control.

"House looks awesome," Alfred continued. "And the garage? I like it."

"It's a carport," Arthur finally said, and Alfred smirked at him.

"Whatever." Alfred looked around. "Place looks nice."

"It's difficult, but something's working," Arthur told him.

"That's awesome." Alfred nodded, and he turned his eyes back to Arthur. "When do you get home tonight?"

"Couple hours." Arthur wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Seeing Alfred after two years, so suddenly… Well, he didn't know what to do. It was too abrupt.

"Cool!"

Arthur could see the familiar flame in Alfred's eyes, and he almost groaned. His enthusiasm hadn't disappeared during college, apparently.

"I have a lot to tell you! Man, college was freakin' awesome! Hey, you got an office? I wanna check it out!"

Arthur shook his head with a small smile and led Alfred to the back and up the stairs, listening to him talk the entire time. "Where's Matthew?" he asked as they walked up the stairs, and Alfred shrugged.

"Dunno. I talked to that girl at the front. She looked at me funny. Didn't even have to ask and she said she'd hunt you down."

"She must've thought you were Matthew," Arthur said, and he pushed open the door to his office. He flicked on the lights and Alfred moved inside, looking at the many trinkets and books on the shelves.

"She's cute." Alfred picked up a tiny porcelain unicorn and turned it in his hands. "You like her?"

"She's a sweet girl," Arthur said as he sat back down at his desk, swivelling his chair to watch Alfred. "One of my first employees."

"Oh." Alfred set the unicorn back down and moved onto a small book, reading the back cover. "You dating her?"

Arthur laughed. "Of course not! She's an employee."

"If she wasn't an employee you'd date her?"

"No." Arthur smiled. "No. That wouldn't be the case."

"Hmm."

The next two hours passed in relative silence. Neither knew what to say, and Alfred appeared determined not to speak until they were back at Arthur's house. The most he would say were things about college, about the parties and his classes, and then his graduation. At that, Arthur felt guilty for missing it, but it appeared that Alfred hadn't been interested in inviting anyone. He hadn't even told Matthew about graduation. He had found a job in a neighboring city that had been looking for police officers, and it looked as though he was going to fly through the ranks considering he had more training and education than most.

Alfred left when Arthur began to lock up. He had taken his own car (Arthur's old SUV), though he had looked hesitant before leaving. Arthur was on his own then, climbing into his car and driving the miles back to his house. He didn't know what to think as he turned into his driveway, and the feelings of wonder that presented themselves when he saw the other SUV under the carport surprised him.

Arthur parked and looked to the door, where Alfred was waiting outside for him to let them both in. He walked over, and neither spoke as they moved into the room.

The front door opened into the large living room, where carpets and furniture were tastefully arranged around a large fireplace. A television was mounted on the wall across the room, and beside it was the archway to the kitchen.

"You've done a lot," Alfred said, slipping his shoes off and looking in the different doors. The library, the kitchen, the bathroom; he didn't leave any of the rooms unchecked (save for those upstairs), and then he finally looked at Arthur.

Arthur was standing silently by the door, and he watched as Alfred plopped down into one of the overstuffed chairs, shifting his weight and settling in. Arthur finally moved into the room and sat on the couch, waiting. Alfred was terrible at hiding his unease, and the younger man was rubbing his hands together impatiently.

"Let's talk," Arthur finally said to break the awkward silence, and Alfred seemed to burst.

"I was disowned."

Arthur didn't make a sound. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, how he was supposed to respond to the sudden confession.

"You were..?"

"Dad disowned me." Alfred looked up, smiling nervously.

"Because you accepted money from me for college?"

"What?" Alfred looked shocked.

"Matthew said your father was angry because of the money, but I never imagined that…" Arthur hesitated. "Should I talk to him?"

"Bad idea," Alfred muttered. He groaned and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his face into his hands. "He'd probably try t' shoot you. Thought he was gonna kill Francis."

"Francis was there?" As much as Arthur found the image of Francis running from a gun toting maniac amusing, he couldn't imagine it really happening.

"Well, Mattie followed me home, when I told him I was going."

Arthur wasn't sure what to say. He was confused and bewildered, and Alfred looked up at him nervously. "Is this about the money?" he pressed, and Alfred groaned, shaking his head. He mumbled something, and Arthur shook his head. "What?" Alfred mumbled something again. "Alfred, I can't hear-"

"I told him I was gay."

Neither said a word. Alfred looked as though he was trying to disappear into the couch, and Arthur just stared wordlessly.

"Mattie said he was, too. And he was bright enough to bring along Francis, and next thing you know, we're disowned, and Francis is trying to get the fuck out before Dad kills 'im." Alfred sighed. "So, yeah."

Arthur wasn't sure what to say to that. He had known about the disagreement between Alfred and his father in the past, but telling your child that you were disowning him- _and Matthew!_ It was unreal. He couldn't imagine it (his conditions had been much different).

"You can stay here," Arthur found himself saying. Alfred looked up quickly. "This is a big house. It's a bit… _quiet._"

Alfred looked hopeful. He grinned, though he still looked apprehensive.

"Something wrong?" Arthur asked him, and Alfred twisted his toes.

"I…" Alfred shut his mouth and chewed on the inside of his cheek. "I missed you. A lot."

"So did I," Arthur said, and Alfred rocked back in his chair.

"God damn it," Alfred grumbled. "This sucks."

Arthur waited. Alfred was obviously stressed, and the younger man stood.

"Dad's pissed because I told him that I liked you," Alfred said abruptly. "He was- He thought that I _did things_, for the money, but I _told_ him I didn't, and he didn't really want to listen. I mean, crazy, right? An' then Mattie 'n' Francis're leavin', so I had to try an' distract him, then get the hell out, and…" Alfred let his voice fade, and he looked towards Arthur nervously. "I'm guessing this isn't the awkward start to a great relationship?" he said softly upon seeing Arthur's expressionless face. His body seemed to deflate, and he sighed.

"We'll see where it goes from here," Arthur said. He stood and started for the kitchen. "I'm going to make some dinner."

"I can cook," Alfred muttered, then the rest of what Arthur said sunk in. "Wait, what?" Arthur continued into the kitchen without looking back. "Arthur, what'd that mean? That's good, right? Arthur?"

Alfred caught sight of Arthur's expression, and the smirk (and slightly pink cheeks) only confirmed his thoughts.

Alfred cheered.

Things could only get better.

* * *

I have a few sequels that take place after this. I'll post them sometime this week.


End file.
